


Burden of Love

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Cheating, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Secrets, Forbidden Love, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Infertility, Minor Robb Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, Philosophy, Post-World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26898427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Daenerys is stuck in a loveless marriage with Robb who has denied her advances since his return from war. She feels lonely and overlooked, and the only person who understands her is the new gamekeeper Jon. But can she allow herself to fall in love with her husband's brother?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 290
Kudos: 561





	1. To wither or bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, please note that this story does contain some minor Robb/Daenerys interactions; however, the only explicit content will be between Jon and Daenerys. I'd also urge you to look at the tags to be sure you're happy with the content of the story.
> 
> This fic is loosely inspired by the book "Lady Chatterley's Lover".

Daenerys peers through the keyhole.

Her husband is naked. He is in the bath. The water is so hot that steam fills the room like a mist. A woman sits in the shadows. She is beautiful, Daenerys thinks, with her soft brown curls and sharp eyes. She dips a cloth into the water and brushes the man’s nape, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. She is slow. She is gentle. She washes him with the loving patience of a wife. Her hand slips below the surface. The rag disappears between his legs.

“My Lady.”

Daenerys turns. At the end of the hallway stands a servant. Jeyne is young and naive, but still she blushes. _She knows,_ Daenerys supposes, and somehow it hurts all the more. She does not want a child’s pity.

“Forgive me, my Lady.” Jeyne’s hands wringe at her front. Her gaze flickers between the bathroom door and the floor. She averts Daenerys’ eyes. “Sir Stark asked that you do not tend to him today.”

“I imagine that he did,” Daenerys replies. She wishes for her tone of voice to be sensible. Instead, her words sound distant and cold. “Did he indulge what company he keeps?”

“Just a nurse, my Lady. Miss Tyrell. She comes recommended.”

“With what purpose?”

Jeyne’s mouth opens and closes, but not a single sound escapes. The redness in her cheeks has spread down her neck. She looks like she wants to flee, yet she remains, watching the floorboards at her feet. “Forgive me, my Lady,” she says, but nothing more.

Daenerys takes in a short breath through her nose and raises her chin. She imagines she could cry, and she could scream, and she could act out all the emotions of a hysterical woman. It would be expected and, perhaps, even encouraged.

But numbness creeps across her skin. She rubs her cheeks and finds them dry. “Very well,” she says, and she withstands the urge to take another peek as she stalks past Jeyne on her way to the entrance hall, “thank you, Jeyne - he can find me in the gardens.”

The Stark estate is large and filled with riches; shiny walnut chairs and imported rugs and golden framed mirrors. Everything of value is kept and meticulously cared for. Even things of no discerning quality finds its place - Daenerys knows of drawers with used envelopes and rusty screws. She often wonders what her own place is; a treasured doll to display, or a ripped piece of cloth locked up and forgotten.

_But one cannot be both,_ Daenerys thinks as she walks outside, her hands brushing the buds on the rose bushes, _for you either bloom, or you wither._

It is a chilly morning in March. The hills roll before her with a dusting of frost. The air is fresh and nips at her skin. Daenerys welcomes the feeling of cold as she sets off down the path toward the woodlands. She is not dressed for walking; she is wearing a thin gingham dress, the large embroidered collar fluttering in the wind. The soles of her black mary janes make a dull noise against the frozen ground. That, and the chitter of jaybirds singing, are the only sounds around her.

She wonders if she could get lost on the grounds. The forest alone stretches all the way to town. Most of it is desolate, and at places the trees grow so close that not a slipper of light reaches the shrubs. Since moving to Winterfell, Daenerys has found solace in the woodlands. She used to go exploring with Robb every day until the sun dipped so low that they had to feel their way back. There was a childlike excitement to it, and a tinge of grown up sensuality - the accidental brushing of hands, his breath in her ear, the crushing of leaves reminding her of his presence.

_But that was before the Great War,_ Daenerys tells herself. She pauses as the images of Robb in the bath pushes its way to the front of her mind. Goosebumps prickle her arms. She rubs them for warmth and closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see, but she does; her husband - naked, bare, vulnerable -, and his woman - young, alluring, kind. Or perhaps; her husband - naked, excited, strong -, and his woman - young, submissive, willing.

Twigs snap beneath heavy steps. Daenerys opens her eyes and spots a stranger emerging from the edge of the forest. He is dressed in a brown tweed suit, his stature straight, his face firm. He looks unfriendly, she thinks, and hard; his grey eyes are narrowed, his lips pulled into a frown on his face. From beneath his cap falls curls of black hair. The tips brush past his nape.

The man walks with swiftness and purpose. His eyes are focused on the estate ahead. For a moment, Daenerys wonders if she has become one with the wispy clouds above, because he doesn’t throw one glance her way. He only stops once the path bends, his expression one of mild surprise as he sees her atop the hill.

There is a pause. Then, he pulls off his cap and nods. “Ma’am,” he says. His voice is as gruff as he looks. There is a hoarseness to his words. Daenerys recognises his stifled coughs from her time in London; poverty has its way of marking even the best dressed man.

“Good morning,” she greets.

“Why, yes, morning,” he replies. There is a tinge of _something_ to his eyes that Daenerys can’t quite pinpoint - it could be mockery, or flattery. With men, she finds it hard to tell the difference. 

“Not good?” she asks.

“I suppose it is good, too, Ma’am. Aye, _good morning._ I forget my manners.”

Daenerys can’t help but smile. As the man doesn’t move, she waves for him to step closer. “Are you calling in at Winterfell?” she asks. She watches as he starts walking again; same purpose to his steps, but slower. “Are you meeting with someone?”

“Sir Stark, Ma’am, if he’ll see me.”

“You might find him otherwise occupied at this hour.”

“At any hour I suspect,” the man replies. He pauses again, this time a few feet away from Daenerys. His grey eyes stare her down. One seems slightly more narrow than the other, its shape defined by a large scar crossing from the brow to the cheek. She wonders if that is what’s causing him to frown. “A man of worth has few moments spare in the day.”

“Yet you wish to occupy one,” Daenerys points out. She rests her hands at her front as she takes in his full frame. Up close, she can see that the tweed is old and worn, and the chequered pattern faded from frequent wash. “May I ask your business?”

“You may,” he says, offering nothing. “Do you work at Winterfell, Ma’am?”

“I guess you could call it work,” Daenerys copies his emotionless reply.

The man chews his inner cheek. She thinks she sees him smirking. “Very well, Ma’am,” he says, “I am Jon Snow. Sir Stark has been expecting me for some time now. Would you let him know that I’ve arrived?”

Daenerys stops herself from huffing. _He’s been expecting visitors?_ she wonders. Even over dinner, he made no mention of guests. In fact, it has been weeks since Robb last allowed for company. When she asked to host another party, he rejected her with anger.

“We have each other,” he said, “is that not enough?”

“No one builds a large estate just to fill it with silence,” Daenerys protested. But the moment the words left her lips, she knew of her own mistake.

Robb had sent her a peculiar look, one of joy and misery all at once. “Children make noise,” he pointed out, and nothing more was discussed that evening.

As Jon coughs, Daenerys realises her silence. She nods her head. “Of course,” she says, and she forces a smile to her lips, “please follow me.”

The walk back seems shorter than when she left. Daenerys senses that she’s not ready to face her husband yet, so she slows her steps. At her side, Jon does the same, though his body seems unused to the leisurely pace; he keeps making headway only to stop and let her take the lead, if just for a moment.

“Have you travelled far?” Daenerys asks. She eyes the soles of his shoes. They’ve been repaired, but worn down again. The old leather peeks through.

“I was born in the Highlands,” Jon replies, his gaze still fixed on Winterfell. “Some say no journey home is long.”

“What do you say?”

Jon is quiet. He looks like a man chewing on something sour - the closer they get to the grand entrance with its columns and glass doors, the more haggard he appears.

Daenerys shakes her head. “Forget that I asked,” she says, a sense of shame filling her throat. “My husband always says that I speak too much.”

“No, Ma’am,” Jon says, “that’s not it. It just dawned on me, you see - that perhaps being born somewhere does not make a home.” He looks at her briefly before growling: “Ah, philosophy is for those of better education than myself. Forgive me, Ma’am, I forget my place.”

“Of course,” Daenerys replies, but something in her stirs. _Home,_ she thinks, and the word alone makes her heart ache, _when was the last time I thought of somewhere as more than a place to reside?_ She senses that the man feels her hesitation, because he parts his lips to speak, only another’s voice cuts him short:

“A ghost from the past!”

Robb appears in the doorway. His auburn hair has been combed back, and he’s nicely dressed in a navy lounge suit. Behind the wooden back of his wheelchair stands the woman, Miss Tyrell. Her mousy grey dress should make her look unassuming, Daenerys thinks, but it only highlights her natural features. She can’t help but stare with resent.

“Sir Stark,” Jon says, and his voice seems to change. The roughness is smoothed out - not with a friendly undertone but sheer politeness. He stops between the rose bushes at the steps to the doors, the cap held tightly in his hands. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Robb waves dismissively. “Please, there is no need for courtesies,” he says. He smiles at Daenerys. “I see you’ve already met my wife.”

Jon sends Daenerys a hard stare. “Ma’am?” he says. His expression is one of angry perplexion.

Daenerys feels herself become rather small under his glare. Still, she stands straight, and her tone remains friendly as she says: “I’m sorry, Mr Snow, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself - I’m Daenerys Stark.” She holds out her hand.

Jon looks like he doesn’t wish to shake it but, under the watchful eyes of Robb, he grabs her hand in his and gives it a short squeeze. “Ma’am,” he says, before correcting himself: “Your Ladyship.”

“As said, no need for courtesies,” Robb repeats, but Daenerys doesn’t miss the tinge of amusement in his eyes. He gestures for Miss Tyrell to step aside as he pushes his chair backwards, making space for them to enter. “Come in, we are all friends here. Please.”

Daenerys goes first, brushing past her husband as she enters. When Jon follows, his gaze appears fixated on the floor, but she sees how he eyes Robb out of the corners of his eyes; from the tips of his shoes to the top of his hair. There is a strange familiarity to his gaze, one not even Daenerys can muster after years of marriage.

Robb seems to sense it too. He is quick to announce: “Let us talk in my office.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Jon mutters, and he follows closely behind Robb as they set off down the hallway, his steps as unpaced and uncertain as when he walked with Daenerys.

Miss Tyrell remains. “My Lady,” she says and curtsies. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We have not been introduced - I am Margaery Tyrell.”

Daenerys’ eyes still linger on the back of Jon. Only once he’s disappeared behind the grand oak door does she turn to look at the woman. “You’re a nurse,” she states as a matter of fact.

“I am.”

“And how do you intend to care for my husband?”

Margaery’s brown eyes glimmer. When she speaks, Daenerys senses that she thinks one thing but says another: “I know Sir Stark from many years back. I used to care for his younger brother.”

“Bran?” Daenerys says surprised. “You were Bran’s nurse?”

“I assisted the late Lady Stark. I owe my skills to her kind teachings.”

Daenerys could laugh. _Kind!_ she thinks. Kindness is the last word she would use to describe Catelyn. The woman was fierce, and clever, and a prime example of a lady of the house. _But to me, she showed only dull detachment,_ Daenerys thinks. She would rather be scorned than be treated with impartiality. “I am sure my husband has his reasons,” she says, choosing her words with care, “to seek the assistance of a professional.”

“My Lady, it may not be my place to speak,” Margaery says, her coy stance a contradiction to the frank look on her face, “but you should not blame yourself. Men wish to be strong for their wives, but to do so they must shed their vulnerabilities elsewhere. I am here to help.”

Daenerys looks into Margaery’s eyes for a few seconds. _She is young,_ she realises as the sun hits her face, highlighting her flawless skin and plump lips, _she is young, and unmarried, and just as foolish as me._ She takes in a deep breath through her nose. She wants to say: “You are right - it is not your place, and I do not appreciate you meddling with my marriage.” But instead she smiles: “I thank you for your thoughts,” and with a bow of her head she turns, her shoes clacking against the wood as she walks the stairs to her room, her mind buzzing.

* * *

Dinner is a silent affair. Daenerys’ plate remains untouched as she watches Robb eat. He pays her no heed; his eyes are focused on the newspaper, its pages already worn from this morning’s read. She imagines he could recite every article by now to perfection. _He doesn’t know my mind half as well as he knows the dictionary,_ she thinks, sipping her wine as Robb turns the pages, _and yet, he prefers the company of books._

The sun is setting. The last red rays drag across the woodlands, the treetops appearing aflame. Daenerys watches them with longing, wondering why the darkness of the woods appeals more to her than the warm mansion made of bricks. It makes her sigh.

“Is something the matter?” Robb asks. He still doesn’t look at her. He turns another page. “You’ve been very quiet.”

“So have you,” Daenerys points out. When he doesn’t go on, she asks: “Why did you hire a nurse?”

“You know of my predicament.”

_“In sickness and in health,”_ Daenerys says. She slowly folds the napkin in her lap. “That’s what we promised each other.” She glances across the table, but no matter how much she quietly urges her husband to look at her, he doesn’t. He flips another page. He remains silent. “Do you like her?”

“She is a servant,” Robb replies. “She is here to help me.”

“I am your wife,” Daenerys reminds him, “and I can wash you just fine.”

“Your burden is to love me, not to care for me.”

“They can be one and the same.” Daenerys holds her breath, expecting a reply, but she gets nothing. Another page turned. Another silent sigh. She places her napkin on the table, pushing her plate aside. “You should’ve consulted me.”

“You married me, but not the estate,” Robb says curtly. “Decisions around money are still mine to make.”

“Yes, I married you,” Daenerys agrees, her teeth clenched, “and I expected you to respect my opinion on matters.”

“She is an old friend of the family.”

“So not a servant?” she asks. Robb shifts in his seat. She can tell that she’s bothered him; his eyes seek hers, and there’s a hint of warning to them. She still remembers when he used to look at her with nothing but admiration. She wonders how time changes a man - and a woman. She straightens up, her chin raised. “I know you think me a silly girl-”

“I do not,” Robb protests, still she continues:

“-but I am a woman, Robb, and just as capable of forming my own opinions on matters as you.”

Robb eyes her for a long time. He could shout, she thinks, or he could resign himself. She prepares for anything, her skin tingling with expectation. When he finally sighs and throws his paper aside, she’s almost disappointed - once more, _impartiality._ “And I am a man, Daenerys,” he says, folding his hands under his chin. “I want to be an image of strength to you, like I used to be.”

_Peculiar,_ Daenerys thinks, looking into Robb’s eyes, _to measure yourself in terms of the past._ But she doesn’t speak; on matters of war, the Stark family has always been dogmatic, and to argue would be to make a fool of yourself.

It is Robb who first breaks the silence: “How did you like my brother?”

“Your brother?” Daenerys asks perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“You met him earlier,” Robb says and leans back in his wheelchair. His hands are folded over his chest, a thoughtful look on his face. “Jon Snow. Now, that is a name I never thought I’d hear again. _Jon Snow.”_

“You call him a brother?”

“Aye, we grew up together. He left for London when he was eleven, I believe he found work at the docks.”

“Eleven!” Daenerys says surprised. “Just a child.” Her mind is whirring. Before she can stop herself, she asks: “Why did you never say? This is the first I’ve heard of him!”

“I thought him dead,” Robb admits, and something glimmers in his eyes. _Shame._ He looks down at his hands as he peels at his nails, distracting himself for a moment before continuing: “He was a bastard, Daenerys. A brother, aye, but a bastard. Mother would not have allowed us to stay friends, and had I wished to write letters, where would I’ve sent them? Thousands of ships come to Britain to trade. He could have joined the crew on any of them.”

Daenerys is stumped. She senses she has learned more about Robb’s life in a day than over the past four years of marriage. It unnerves her. Still, she presses on: “How did you get back in touch?”

“He wrote to me. Can you imagine? Twenty years of silence, and then a letter arrives. I call him my brother, but perhaps my kindness extends too far. It’s like I said; a ghost from the past.”

“So he wishes to reconnect?” Daenerys asks. She remembers Jon’s broody eyes, his sour grimace, his rough palm in her hand. Life has not treated him well, but he has lived it, she knows that instinctively. She envies him.

Robb grunts and shakes his head. There’s a bitter smile on his lips. “He asked for work,” he says.

“What did you tell him?” Daenerys muses, but her husband merely shrugs. “Well, we can always use an extra pair of hands. The estate is large, the grounds carry on for miles-”

“An act of charity?” Robb interrupts her. “He is rough, and uneducated. London has made him keen on the bottle, I am sure of it. I could smell it on his breath - gin.”

“I smelled no such thing,” Daenerys says with honesty. She stands up. She walks around the table slowly. Her fingers slip across the wood, down to the napkin in his lap, up to his hands on his chest. She grabs one, and gives it a squeeze. Only when he looks up at her does she say: “You want to be an image of strength? Then extend the hand.”

“Whatever would he do?” Robb asks tiredly.

Daenerys lifts her gaze. Once more, she watches the trees in the distance, the woodlands now shrouded in darkness. “Let him take the cottage in the forest,” she says. “You own much of the woods, and they have become dark and grimy. I wish to go there again. He could clear the paths and tend to the animals. Walking there would be just like before.”

“My chair cannot cross the mud,” Robb reminds her bitterly, his hand almost pulling from hers, but she holds on tight.

Daenerys leans down. She looks into his eyes. She says: “For me. A place of solace for me.”

Robb pauses. He looks like he’s about to protest, but something catches his attention; there, in the doorway, stands Margaery. When Daenerys spots her, she curtsies.

“Apologies,” Margaery says, “it is regarding the letter.”

“Of course,” Robb replies, and he pulls his hand free of Daenerys’ grasp, “just wait for me in my office. I will be right there.” He eyes Margaery as she nods and disappears, her heels clicking across the floor. Then, he sighs: “Fine, I will take him as a gamekeeper.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys replies, though her hand feels empty, and Robb’s words lack warmth. “You must be off?”

“Matters to attend,” Robb says, and he pushes himself free of the table and turns to the door. He sends her one last look as he points out: “As you can see, your opinion still matters.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys says again. Yet as she watches him leave, she can’t help but wonder if it was her pleadings that made the difference, or the distraction of a pair of brown eyes.

* * *

Spring arrives on the first day of April. Daenerys wakes to find herself alone in bed. The sun shines in through the curtains. When Jeyne pulls them aside and opens the window, a scent of roses wafts in with the cool air.

“They’re in bloom,” Jeyne says, her eyes closing as she breathes in.

Daenerys slips out of bed and watches herself in the mirror. Her gown falls flatly around her stomach. _Some will bloom, and some will wilt,_ she reminds herself, _but one cannot do both._ She leans on the windowsill and glances across the grounds. There is no more frost on the grass, and the sky is without a cloud.

“Sir Stark has taken breakfast in the office,” Jeyne says, watching Daenerys with care. “Would you like me to bring yours up?”

Daenerys holds her hand up to shade her eyes as she peers further into the distance. She watches the trees, their crowns softly green against the blue backdrop. “Thank you, Jeyne,” she says, “but I think I’ll go for a walk first.”

She dresses in green and white, her skirt long enough to cover her ankles, her shawl frilly and warm around her frame. Her boots are of leather, and sturdy. When she walks the path to the wood, she doesn’t feel the hardness of the ground, and her steps are light and determined. The air is fresh; she lets it fill her lungs, chase away the stuffy smell that always linger in the Stark estate. Outside, she is revived and alive; the woods offer her a freedom seldom found within the mansion.

The first part of the forest is bright. Daenerys finds her way with ease. The ground has been cleared, and the shrubbery kept neatly trimmed as were they fine hedges bordering a mansion. She can hear birds singing, and the snapping of twigs when hares run for cover. She can taste the morning’s dew on her lips; it drips from the branches above and softens her mood.

At a fork in the road, she steers away from the paved track toward town and sets off further into the woodlands following the smaller, dark pathway. Here, the forest floor takes over, dirt and mud covering the chipped stone laid down years before her time. She has to jump, and hold up her skirt to cross at places, and the trees seem to close in on her, the crowns reaching for the feather in her hat. She holds onto it with a chuckle, though she somewhat wishes it would be snatched. _A lady in name,_ she shames herself, _but not in spirit._

By the time Daenerys spots the clearing, she knows she’s left the Stark estate far behind. Here, one cannot even hear the humming of workers, or see the smoke from the nearby factories. She feels like Eve, walking Paradise for the first time; happy, and content. And not alone.

She stops as she sees him. There, in front of the old cottage, sits a man. He has black curls and grey eyes, his bared chest roughened with scars, his strong legs hidden in a thin pair of trousers, the suspenders hanging loose by his hips. His large hands are working with wood. A box rests between his legs. He suckles onto a pair of nails between his teeth as he hammers the planks into place. One by one, the nails go in, until he spits out the last one and wipes his face off in his arm. Then, he pushes the wood aside, grabs another from the stack on his right, and starts over.

Daenerys watches him through the low hanging branches. She eyes how his muscles move beneath his scars, how his veins run blue, how his Adam’s apple jumps when he spits and coughs. She likes the soft way his curls bounce into his eyes. She admires the curt way in which he moves. When she first saw him, she found him unfriendly to look at. Now, as shadows cling onto his face, and the silent sunlight pecks his roughened skin, she thinks him almost comely. Where Robb is soft, Jon looks hard.

She bites down on her lower lip. She makes sure her hat sits straight and her shawl falls gently at her back. Only then does she step out into the light, a faked look of surprise on her face. “Good morning,” she says.

Jon looks up. He watches her for a second longer than necessary before pushing himself up standing. “I’m sorry, your Ladyship,” he says, and he turns his back on her as he grabs his undershirt off the ground. The fabric is dirty and worn. As he pulls it on, he looks over his shoulder back at her. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

“I imagined as much,” Daenerys says. She feels a blush on her cheek, yet she finds herself staring. Once Jon has stuffed his shirt into his trousers and pulled the suspenders, she approaches. “How are you finding work?”

“Good, your Ladyship, good,” Jon says and wipes his nose. “Plenty to get on with.”

Daenerys can smell him in the air; sweat, and musk. Her nostrils tingle. She tries to look unbothered. “You are of Winterfell, then?”

“Aye,” Jon says, his voice less keen. His eyes narrow. “As I’m sure Sir Stark has informed your Ladyship.”

A breeze blows through the trees, rustling the leaves. Daenerys pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I sense disapproval,” she says, “and I apologise if you feel misled.”

“I took you for a serving girl,” Jon says. His thumbs rest in his pockets, a nonchalant attitude to his stance. In fact, Daenerys finds that he is acting as if she _were_ just that; a maid at the estate, not wife to its heir. She can’t decide if she likes it or not. “It would’ve been kind of your Ladyship to have told me otherwise. A man who makes a fool of himself rarely retains his pride.”

“I didn’t assume man’s dignity to be so frail,” Daenerys replies, “but I am not here to make amends - I may not have revealed my status, but neither did you. I hear you are my husband’s brother.”

“In name only,” Jon says. He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling back his curls to watch her better. His grey eyes are cautious. “I am as distant to Sir Stark as I am to your Ladyship.”

“Nonsense - you heard him yourself. _No need for courtesies.”_

Jon smiles. It is not a warm smile, but a small, bitter one that makes the scar around his eye fold. “Aye, he said there was no need,” he agrees, “not that it was unwanted.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to speak, but she finds no words to say. _He is right,_ she realises, her face reddening as Jon’s mocking gaze slips to the feather in her hat. She wishes she’d let the tree have it, but now she must stand tall, not allowing him to bring her down. _If only he wouldn’t look at me in that way,_ she thinks flustered. Jon’s gaze has dropped to her body. He’s watching her through the thin shawl. His stare is ravenous.

Daenerys says the first thing that comes to mind: “But you enjoy work?”

Jon laughs. “You asked that.”

“I suppose I did.” She quiets. The woods around them rustle again. She wonders if it was a mistake to come; her love of the forest could be tainted by her inability to deal with a simple gamekeeper. He is rough, she knows, but what he lacks in education, he makes up for in quick wits. Even when he says nothing, his presence challenges her.

After a minute, Jon takes pity on her. He gestures at the wood scattered across the ground. “Coops,” he says, and he picks one up to show her, “they’re for the pheasants. Sir Stark mentioned he likes to hunt.”

“He is good with a rifle,” Daenerys says, feigning interest as Jon turns the coop before setting it aside. “I suppose all men like to kill.”

“Some more than others,” Jon says, but he doesn’t clarify. He brushes some dirt off his palms as he watches her. “Did your Ladyship come for anything? Am I making too much noise? I can move to another part of the woods.”

“I was just walking,” Daenerys assures him. She wants to stay and ask more questions; what did he do when he left Winterfell, where has he travelled, how did he get his scars? But Jon seems dismissive in attitude, his face once more bathed in the shadows from the trees, his hands at loss without work to carry out. So she turns on her heels and pretends to gander at the area. “I must’ve gotten lost. I will head back.”

“Will you find your way again?” Jon asks.

Daenerys turns and peers at him. “To your cottage?” she asks in surprise.

Jon smirks. _There it is again,_ Daenerys thinks with a tinge of excitement, _he recognises me as an equal._ “To home,” he says, “the estate.”

Daenerys pulls at the shawl as she shrugs. “What makes a home?” she asks and she waves at the coops, “And what makes a cage?”

Jon’s smirk fades, but something else takes over his face. Curiosity. He nods his head. “Good day, your Ladyship,” he says.

“Good day,” Daenerys replies, and she turns on her heels as she heads back the way she came. Her heart is in her throat. She doesn’t know why. She feels sweaty, and her skin buzzes with joy. When she looks over her shoulders, she finds Jon watching her until the woods grow thick and dense once more, swallowing her up.

To be talked to, and not talked at. Daenerys ponders on the difference it makes, and she cannot stop thinking of the way Jon watched her body. She felt alive - not as a human being, or a wife, or a Lady. But as a woman.

On her way inside the mansion, she plucks a rose from the bushes. It is pink, and beautiful, and its smell is sweet. She brings it with her to the bathroom as she bathes, the woodlands washing off her skin but not her mind.


	2. Of body and mind

It is a sunny Thursday afternoon that Daenerys finds herself in the company of men of better standing than her own. They are a constant at Winterfell, as much a part of the estate as the bricks themselves. She barely considers them guests. Yet they allow her the simple duty of hosting, and she does so with zest; the room is kept cool, drinks are served promptly, and music plays should anyone wish to seize her for a dance.

_But these men prefer to talk of life,_ Daenerys reminds herself as she sits next to Robb, her back straight and her smile pleasant, _their passion is not to engage._

“They intend to strike,” Robb says. He is reciting newspapers and smoking. Ashes flicker through the air when he speaks. “Oil will replace coal, and still the colliers want to strike. It’s hardly a favourable position.”

“What should they do?” Gendry asks Robb. He is a man of new money, and every other word from his mouth is a question. “I hear conditions are dangerous.”

Theon - freshly shaven chin, cruel eyes - laughs. “Dangerous! It’s work, is it not? Are these men not of body?”

Gendry frowns: “What do you mean?”

“There are men of body, and men of mind. We are men of mind; we make a business of our knowledge, and the world is better for it. Now, that is not to discredit men of body.”

“Of course not,” Robb says.

“Of course not,” the other men agree.

Daenerys sits in silence, watching her hands in her lap. But she listens.

Theon continues: “These men serve where there is need. Today, they work the coal mines. Tomorrow, perhaps they work the oil drills.”

“It is a simple pleasure, is it not?” Tyrion asks. He is short and stout, the drink in his hand as much of an extension of himself as his very arm. “To work your body. I admire these men, really - they know a trade.”

“But there are many men of body,” Theon reminds them, “and few of mind.”

“What about women?” Daenerys asks. She looks around. The men seem ashamed to realise that she has been listening. Her husband’s eyes are reproachful. Still, she goes on: “Are women of mind, or of body?”

“A pure woman is of mind,” Robb says. His voice suggests it is not an idea to discuss.

“Yet I have a body,” Daenerys points out, “and so do you.”

The men quiet. Music fills the room. It is jazz. Daenerys wants to move, stretch her legs and arms and let her thoughts be silent. But she awaits a reply, her eyes lingering on her husband’s distant eyes.

“Men of body also possess minds,” Theon says. He speaks slowly, as if tasting the words as they leave his mouth. His gaze is aimed in her vicinity, but whether he is looking at her or toward her, Daenerys can’t quite tell. His eyes are too narrow. “But that is not to say it is their dominant nature.”

“Do you suggest it is choice, or nature?” Daenerys asks.

“Look at your husband,” Tyrion says, and there is slickness to his voice. When all turn to stare at Robb, he seems unable to decide between looking proud and looking embarrassed. “Look at Sir Stark. There is a man who used his body for the good of the nation. Fought in the Great War, did he not? That was a choice, but to choose takes mind, and to choose right? That takes knowledge.”

“You flatter me,” Robb says, but Daenerys notes his lack of protests.

“He is correct,” Theon agrees. “A man of mind can be both as it pleases him.”

“Could a woman too?” Daenerys asks, but before Theon can reply, Robb interjects:

“I hired a man recently.”

“Yes, Jon Snow,” Theon says, and his face seems to brighten. “I remember him.”

“You knew him?” Daenerys queries.

Theon folds his hands at his chest and eyes the ceiling as if lost in thought. “Oh, how old was I, Robb? A boy of eight? I knew him for a few years, no more, and I doubt time would have brought us closer. A man of few words, I remember.”

“Still is,” Robb says. He blows out smoke. His eyes have relaxed. He turns from Daenerys to face the men once more as he speaks: “I took him on as a gamekeeper. Pitied him, I suppose.”

“As men of mind, it is our duty to be charitable,” Gendry says, but he still manages to make it sound like a question, his eyes seeking the approval of his current company.

“Indeed,” Robb says.

“Indeed,” the other men agree.

Daenerys stands. “Apologies,” she says, and she watches as the men scurry to their feet, etiquette commanding their movements, “I feel a bit faint. I will lay down for a moment.”

“Should I send the nurse?” Robb asks.

Daenerys manages not to grimace. She leans down and pecks her husband’s cheek. “Do not fret - I will return for dinner.” She leaves and walks to her bedroom, embracing the quiet of the estate. _What is the purpose of talk,_ she thinks, _if it only allows for agreement?_ She stops at her windows. They have been cracked open, letting the dry countryside air roll over her skin. She watches the empty hills as she strips out of her dress.

_Men of body, and men of mind,_ Daenerys thinks with scorn. She is naked. The mirror reflects her. When she met Robb, she had the frame of a young boy; skinny, and small, and straight like an arrow. Now, her curves droop downwards, her teats sit unloved, her buttocks know only her own hands. She believes that as war hardens a man, time hardens a woman. With care, she can grow like the trees, strong and sturdy, until she reaches the Heavens. _But if a flower is not watered, it will die,_ she thinks, and her skin prickles with goosebumps at the thought.

Daenerys gets dressed again; not in her hostess garments, but midnight blue, an embroidered mock-cape on her shoulder and a hat - quite featherless - on her silver hair. She picks a pair of leather boots as her companion. They will serve her well in the woods, she thinks.

That is where she goes - past the study where the men now stand, talking of wars and women, and down the path to the forest edge, its sloped route forcing her to slow her steps. The sun is warm on her skin. She doesn’t feel it once below the trees, but she smells spring in the earth, and hears it in the birds’ song. Soon May will be upon them.

Before she realises her way, Daenerys finds herself at the cottage. It’s an old building of stone from the last century - quite small, quite narrow, and rather unassuming in presence. The coops outside have all been fixed. A few of them hold chicks. Daenerys kneels and lets the birds peck at her fingers. “Are you happy in there?” she asks. They chitter in response.

There is no sign of Jon. Daenerys thinks that she did not come to speak to the gamekeeper, but she still finds herself scouring the trees at the edge of the clearing, wondering if he’s somewhere out there. _Perhaps he is watching me,_ she muses. The idea brings a blush to her cheeks. She walks to clear her mind, circling the cottage which appears desolate. The windows are narrow, and dark. She peers through them but finds only shadows.

There’s the cock of a rifle, then the snap of a shot. The sound rings through the woods. A dog barks. As Daenerys turns on her heels, she sees Jon push his way from between the trees. A white dog is at his feet, large and panting. There is blood on its snout.

“Afternoon,” Jon says as he sees her. The rifle is in his hands, the barrel smoking. He swings it over his shoulder and fastens the strap whilst eyeing her. “Hope I didn’t frighten your Ladyship.”

“You were hunting?” she asks. Her fingers are holding on to her cape. Beneath the fabric, she can feel her heart thumping in her chest. She didn’t realise her own shock.

“Aye,” Jon says, “and your Ladyship was peeping.”

Daenerys feels her face go rather red. She takes a step away from the cottage. “I was only pondering on your whereabouts.”

“You think with your eyes?” Jon asks. There is mockery to his tone.

Daenerys looks at his dog. “At least one was successful in their endeavours,” she comments as it licks the blood off its teeth, watching her.

Jon smiles a peculiar smile, but he nods. “Aye, one of us got lucky.” He waves the dog off, “Go, Ghost,” and it trudges past her, somberly settling by the empty coops. “Would your Ladyship care for tea?” he asks gruffly.

Daenerys replies before she thinks: “Yes, thank you,” and when Jon stares into her eyes, she feels her hand close over her ring. “That sounds pleasant.”

“Pleasant is a tipple of whisky,” Jon says, “but tea will do. Your Ladyship must excuse my quarters - as I’m sure she’s noticed, they are rather drab.”

“One should never drink for pleasure, but for company.”

“Your Ladyship might find that part lacking too,” Jon says, but there is a softness to his voice. He stalks past her, his muddy boots kicking up dirt as he walks. He leads her in a steady march to the front of the cottage and inside its darkness.

Daenerys steps into a dreary little room. The furnishing is old, and every piece kept out of practicality; she cannot spot a single item that exists for pleasure only. A curtain hung down the middle of the house creates a makeshift wall. Jon pulls it aside to reach the fireplace, and he swiftly lights the twigs. Flames soon lick up the blackened chimney.

“For your comfort,” Jon says as he pulls her a chair close to the fire.

Despite feeling warm, Daenerys obliges; she seats herself, and she watches as Jon mulls about, fetching cups and putting a kettle over the flames. There is a charm to be found in his simple garments, she thinks, his dark trousers a bit loose, and his flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He is dressed for a day out, not for afternoon tea with a lady. _But though the man uses titles in his speech,_ she thinks, _he treats me like a commoner._

It is as if Jon has read her mind - as the water boils, he eyes her with mischief. “How do you like my place?” he asks.

“It is lovely,” Daenerys says.

Jon grunts and takes a seat himself. He keeps his distance. Still Daenerys thinks that she could reach him if only she were to lean forward. “It is not an estate.”

“I have never known a gamekeeper to keep a mansion.”

“Does your Ladyship acquaint many gamekeepers?”

Daenerys watches him with care. There is jest to his eyes, and a hint of a smile on his lips. The way the flames flicker across his scarred face gives him an expression of dare. It is almost handsome, she thinks, to look upon a man who wears his life on his body. She suckles on her teeth in thought. “May I ask why you returned to Winterfell?”

“You may,” Jon says, and he smiles.

Daenerys leans back in her chair. “Some would say you speak with insolence.”

“Others would say I answer only what is asked and call it good manners.”

“Very well - did you work the docks in London?”

“Aye, that I did.”

“What brought you away from the trade?”

“It was not a trade.” Jon coughs. He stands to fill two mugs with tea. He offers her the one less chipped. “No more than war is a job.”

“You were in the war?” Daenerys asks. “Just like my husband?”

Jon nods and settles. He looks into his tea. His nose scrounges up, as if a bad smell has reached him.

“How did you find the Great War?”

“It’s an odd name, doesn’t your Ladyship think that?” Jon asks. He glances up at her. His grey eyes appear hard like granite. _“The Great War._ It was not named by soldiers, that I know. No one looks at dead children and thinks of greatness.”

His choice of words make Daenerys shiver, and she sips the tea for warmth. _Children,_ she thinks. _He looks at young men as children._ It is a far cry from her husband’s view of the world; a man has a body, and a man uses it. The afternoon’s conversation creeps back into her consciousness.

When she remains silent, Jon sighs. He puts his tea aside. “Forgive me,” he asks, “I said it before - I forget my manners. I didn’t mean to upset your Ladyship.”

“Why did you fight?” Daenerys hears herself asking. She glances at him, her expression puzzled. She knows she should stand up and walk out of the cottage and go home. Her absence must have been noted. But it is not her mind they wish to hear, she knows, it is just the presence of her body that is required. But the gamekeeper is listening to her, and he watches her now with an interest she’s not known for years. “If you disagree with war, why battle? Is it in your nature?”

Jon scoffs: “Violence is no less man’s nature than it is a woman’s.”

“Many would disagree.”

“Would your Ladyship?”

Daenerys hesitates. She senses this would be a moment when Robb would urge her silence, if not demand it. But Jon does no such thing, so she slowly says: “I sometimes think women more angry than men.”

“How so?” he asks. For once, his voice carries no sound of mockery or jest. He leans forward. She can smell his breath in the air between them; it is warm, and thick with tobacco.

“We have been quieted, have we not? If you look at history, our voices are rarely heard. A man has always been free, but a woman?” Daenerys shakes her head, the words on the tip of her tongue, yet she finds herself unable to speak them. It is as if she has forgotten how to string together a sentence. She gasps in air in frustration and asks: “What happens to a caged animal?”

Jon blinks in surprise. He seems to mull over her words. “It depends on the kind,” he finally says.

“If you put your dog in a coop, would he appear docile?”

“For a while, perhaps.”

“But when let loose?” Daenerys asks, and when Jon meets her eyes, she knows he understands. She can see it in his eyes; they are no longer granite, but thin and pale like clouds. “Violence is bred,” she says, “and the most violent thing of all is a body with no outlet for its passions.”

“What is yours?” Jon asks, his voice tense.

There is a pause. Daenerys feels Jon surround her; his scent in her nostrils, the taste of his sweat so heavy in the air that she can feel it on her tongue, the warmth as much from his strong hands reaching for her as from the flames. But before she can lean closer, he pulls away and stands.

“Forgive me,” he says, and he turns his back on her, facing the curtain. “I should supper before sunset.”

Daenerys skin shivers. In her chest, she feels a burning more fierce than that of the fireplace, yet she suppresses it as she gets to her feet. “Thank you four your hospitality,” she says. “You have been kind company.” She takes her leave with swiftness; through the woods, back up the path, her boots clack with haste against the chipped stone. When she reaches the mansion, she is damp with perspiration. She finds Robb in his study, alone.

“Hello, dear,” he says when she enters, “did you sleep well?”

Daenerys pushes a sweaty lock out of her face and stares at him. She must smell of sod, and tobacco, and the fresh air, she thinks. Surely he must sense it, if not in her appearance, then in her expression - one of longing and pain all at once. She needs to be touched, she knows. She needs to make love.

But when she kneels at the side of his chair and kisses his hand, he pulls it away with a coy smile. “I have matters to attend,” he says. “Our guests left me with much to consider.”

“Of course,” Daenerys says. Her voice is still breathless from her walk. She swallows and presses another cold kiss to his skin as she asks: “But surely work can wait, and an hour be spared for your beloved?”

Robb looks at her with dullness. “Dear,” he says, “for what purpose? You cannot bear children.”

His words are like water on her fire; Daenerys feels how her body goes cold, and she stares at him, searches his face for a sign of regret, a sign of jest, perhaps an admittance of guilt. But he is not even cruel, she knows - he is just indifferent to her very existence.

The silence between them grows thick. Finally, Daenerys speaks. “Of course,” she says, and she smiles politely, her hands slipping off his wheelchair as she stands, “I will take my leave.” The walk back to the bedroom seems long. Daenerys wants to cry, but once more, only numbness comes to her heart. _Of mind, and of body,_ she thinks sadly. _Perhaps man is one, but a woman is both._

* * *

On a warm morning at the end of May, Daenerys walks the forest edge with her husband and Jon. A path of smoothened stone has been laid adjacent to the treeline, and Robb easily makes his way in his wheelchair, crossing the hills with the same vigour as a young man. Daenerys falls behind, watching the men as they talk, their voices carrying far across the open fields on their left.

“You have done fine work,” Robb praises Jon, “but I expected as much - you were good with your hands when we were kids.”

“Aye, Sir, thank you,” Jon replies, his voice emotionless. His rifle is in his hands. He gazes through the trees as they walk. Now and then, his white dog shows in the shadows of the woods, its size comparable to that of a wolf.

Robb shakes his head with amusement. “No need for _Sir,_ please, Jon. We are brothers. How have you been? How did London treat you?”

“The same as London treats all men - as cogs in a machine.”

“You make yourself sound replaceable.”

“I suppose we all are. If more died at war, less would seek work. The young replace the old.”

“Yet here we are - we should count ourselves lucky,” Robb says.

Daenerys notes how Jon’s eyes seek back across the field toward the mansion as he replies: “Aye, lucky.” There is no hint of joy to his voice.

Robb doesn’t seem to notice. He continues: “I have never been one to scoff at life, although some would find my position rather disagreeable. War made some men bitter.”

“It also made some men dead, Sir.”

Robb eyes Jon with a wry smile on his lips. “I told you, Jon, no need for courtesies - we are brothers.” His words seem more like a warning than a kindness.

Daenerys shivers in the sun. She hurries her steps to get closer to them. “Could we not speak of war,” she asks, watching Jon’s face. It is scrounged in silent fury as he stares ahead. “It is such a dreary subject on a summer day.” She catches Jon’s eyes - it is a look of quiet gratitude.

“As you wish,” Robb says, but he doesn’t sound pleased. For a while, they carry on in silence, Daenerys making sure to remain right at their heels. Then, Robb speaks: “Did you know a woman in London?” He looks at Jon.

Jon shrugs. He avoids Daenerys’ eyes and watches the woods once more as he replies: “I suppose I knew a few.”

“Did you ever marry?”

“Once.”

“Where is she now?”

Jon shrugs again. His lips curl. He could be holding in a cough, Daenerys supposes, but it looks like he’s suppressing a grimace. “I assume she’s still in London,” he replies.

Robb looks pleasantly surprised. “You didn’t bring her?” he asks. “Surely she could reside in town whilst you tend to your duties?”

“Oh, dear,” Daenerys says, her voice filled with strained politeness. Part of her wishes to hear Jon’s story, yet another part begs her to close her ears and pay no heed. _He is married,_ she thinks. _Why does that make me feel lonely?_ “I am sure Mr Snow does not want us prying.”

“On what matter may I speak!” Robb halts in the middle of the path. He stops so suddenly that pecks of gravel flings through the air from beneath the wheels of his chair. When he stares at Daenerys, his face is as red as his hair. The look of fury in his eyes makes her heart skip a beat in fright. “I cannot speak of war, and I cannot ask a man about his marriage. Please tell me, _dear,”_ the endearment sounds acidic on his lips, “what I am allowed to say?”

Daenerys finds she can’t even pry her lips apart in surprise. She just stares at her husband, her hands clenched at her front, holding onto the skirt of her dress. She is shocked, and she is excited - at last, she has managed to wrestle an emotion from Robb, and although he looks at her with hatred, it feels better than when he ignores her.

_Yet he only rages when his pride is wounded,_ she thinks, _and appears nonchalant when it concerns my own._

The leaves in the woods rustles. A grey hare appears in the shrubs nearby. Robb’s eyes snap from Daenerys to the animal, and he waves for Jon to hand him the rifle. As soon as his finger is on the trigger, he appears to have forgotten all else; he aims, he shoots. The hare takes off unscathed.

Robb huffs and lowers the weapon. He hands it back to Jon. “Look at that,” he says to no one in particular. “A man should not speak and act at once. One must take precedence.”

Jon accepts the rifle. He looks at Daenerys, but his expression gives nothing away. “My wife is in London,” he says, “but she calls another man her husband. She supposed I would die at war. My return was unexpected, and the child in the cradle was not mine.”

“The mood of women is fickle,” Robb says. He pats Jon’s arm and nods for him to take lead as they continue down the path. Daenerys senses her husband purposely avoids looking at her, yet Jon’s eyes readily seeks over his shoulder when he speaks, watching her.

“So is the mood of men,” Jon says.

“Are you a philosopher?” Robb asks unkindly.

“Nay, I have little in the way of education. I know only what I have lived.”

“Then trust me on this, Jon, because I have read much about life; a man’s worth is deemed by his ability to provide for his family, and a woman’s worth by her ability to produce one.”

Daenerys takes in a sharp breath through her nose at his words. She feels bile building in her throat, and she can no longer look Jon in the eyes. She casts her gaze down, watching her boots as they clack to the ground. She feels faint. _Perhaps it’s the sun,_ she thinks, though the Scottish summers are never hot. Even now the breeze blows tempered across the fields.

“You mustn’t blame her,” Robb continues, “she just followed her nature.” Once more, he pauses on the path. Another hare has appeared in the woods; this one is smaller, and moving, it’s brown hind legs kicking up ground as it goes. Robb holds out his hand as he urges: “Quick, the rifle!”

But the shot has already been fired. The barrel smokes. The hare lies dead. When Jon lowers the rifle, he spits to the side and says: “Forgive me, brother - it is in my own nature to act.” He looks Robb in the eyes, and Robb stares back, the silence tense.

Daenerys opens her mouth to speak, but before a word can cross her lips, Jon’s dog breaks free of the woods. As it jumps onto the path, the dead hare clenched in its bloody jaws, she takes a step back in surprise. Her shoe misses the road. She knows it before she feels it; her other boot is still wedged into between the stones, and she tumbles into the tall grass, her ankle twisting with a loud snap. Pain shoots through her body like a strike of lightning - immediate, and hot. She cries out in agony.

Jon is by her side at once. His strong hands close at her wrists. When he pulls her up, his arm slips to steady her by the waist. Against his chest, she is safe. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Daenerys can barely see him through the tears in her eyes, but she can hear Robb ask:

“What is the matter?” His wheelchair swings around on the path. “Is it broken?”

“I don’t know,” Daenerys sobs.

Robb smacks his lips with irritation. He looks between the hare and the woods, and then he holds out his hand. “Give me the rifle,” he says. Jon gives him an odd stare, but he slips the strap off his shoulder and hands the weapon back to him. Robb takes it with a nod. “Get her home,” he says, “this was never a place for a woman. Come join me for a hunt afterwards. You can leave your dog.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jon says, and this time Robb does not protest his use of title. He just watches as Jon leads Daenerys’ hand to his shoulder as they slowly start making their way back down the path.

Daenerys’ body shivers. The sensation of bile in her throat has intensified. She is not sure what hurts more; the pain in her ankle, or the words Robb has spoken. As tears slipper down her cheek, her fingers dig into Jon’s suit and she says: “I am sorry.”

“No bother, your Ladyship,” Jon says. “You will be home soon.”

“No, I am sorry for what he said,” she clarifies, breathing through her stuffy nose. “My husband can be cruel without intent. He shouldn’t have asked about your wife.”

Jon is quiet. A few minutes pass in silence as they walk; he - slow, sturdy, strong - and she - quivering, upset, and lonely. The path twists and turns with the woodlands. The mansion ahead still appears small.

“You can leave me here,” Daenerys says as they reach the main path, “I will make my way.”

Jon scoffs: “Your Ladyship can’t walk.”

“I can hobble, and it will get me just as far.”

Jon looks at her. His eyes are narrowed. The way the sun falls in, half of his face is in shade, the other half bright. When Daenerys looks at him, she finds it suitable; he is dark, and he is light. She wonders what he sees when he looks at her; her pain, or her strength? She is not certain there is even a difference between them any longer.

“Come here,” Jon suddenly says, and before she can ask his meaning, his hands slip to her legs and back. With ease, he hoists her up, holding her in his arms as he marches onwards.

“Mr Snow!” Daenerys gasps in surprise, but she does not struggle. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she feels herself pressed to his frame as he carries her. Her nose rests in his curly hair. She can smell him; musky sweat, cheap tobacco, dirty gunpowder. It is a scent of man, and it makes her heartbeat quicken. The more it fills her nostrils, the more she senses it take over her body. It’s almost like she can taste him on her lips, and when she closes her eyes, she believes it to be true. She can taste Jon in his touch.

_When was the last time a man held me?_ she wonders. Robb does not even share her bed anymore. He uses the excuse of work, the worry of waking her, but she thinks he finds her presence tiresome. Using her mind and own hands, she has made a dull affair of love. _But loving yourself only extends so far,_ she thinks, _when your body craves a man’s rough hands._

And Jon’s hands are rough; she feels his fingers through her dress, and his breath on her neck, and his heart thumbs so loudly she can hear it, and his Adam’s apple jumps against her hand.

When they reach the mansion, she doesn’t wish for him to leave her already. But his eyes watch the entrance with hesitation, and she says: “The steps will do just fine, thank you.” So he puts her down on the stone between the rose bushes. She hates it at once; the sweet scent of flowers rip away the sensation of him. When he steps back, she already feels lonely.

“Should I call someone for your Ladyship?” Jon asks.

Daenerys shakes her head. The pain in her ankle throbs dully, but somehow she no longer minds it. “I can make it from here.”

“Okay,” Jon says, though he doesn’t move.

Daenerys watches him shyly. “Thank you,” she says, “for your help.”

“It’s my job.”

“No, gamekeeping is. This was a gentleman’s decision.”

“As your Ladyship says,” Jon replies. There is a twinkle of amusement to his eyes when he adds: “I suppose it is in my nature.”

Daenerys bites her lip not to laugh. _Nature!_ she thinks. _How Robb would have hated to hear that._ She brushes her skirt down around her legs. She wonders if his heat is still in the fabric. She wonders if she will be able to smell him on her lace later.

“I should see to Sir Stark,” Jon finally says.

Daenerys’ heart aches. Still, she smiles: “Of course,” and nods. “My husband needs you.”

“Aye,” Jon says, still eyeing her. He brushes a lock of hair behind his ear and corrects his cap. “Good day, your Ladyship.”

“Good day,” Daenerys says. As Jon takes off down the path, she watches him silently, and she wonders: _Is it Robb who needs you the most, or his wife?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments on the last chapter! I was excited to see that some of you like a forbidden love story as much as me. I really appreciate the feedback.
> 
> The lovely art on today's chapter is, of course, by DragonandDirewolf. Can I just say how much I love Daenerys in Jon's strong arms? I wish he never had to put her down.
> 
> I can't believe we're a third of the way through Inktober already. I sense this month is going to go by in a flash! There are so many more stories and pieces of art to come, and we're so glad to be sharing them with you all. Thank you for being here!


	3. To love or be loved

A party should be a merry affair, Daenerys thinks, yet she finds herself bored before dusk. It’s in the midst of June, and Winterfell is bustling with beautiful women and wealthy men. Wherever she looks, there is dancing and laughter and drinking, and even the serving girls find themselves complimented, their cheeks glowing quite pink in the light from the setting sun.

 _Still I am like an object at a museum,_ Daenerys thinks as she glances through the open door, _to be seen and never touched_.

Dressed in a golden gown and feathered headband, Daenerys longs to glimmer beneath the chandeliers of the ballroom. Her feet still remember how to dance, she knows, and her body craves to be led. But seated next to Robb, no one dares to approach but to speak with him. _I am owned, and forgotten,_ she muses.

“They’re incompatible,” Theon says. He is smoking, just like the other men standing around her husband. They’re in his study. The door is kept wide open to allow the music to be heard, yet the sound from the instruments drown in their raised voices. “Love and marriage just can’t be.”

“That seems a shame,” Gendry remarks.

“Not at all! I’d say it’s a shame to combine them,” Tyrion agrees. He’s sat on the windowsill sipping cognac. “Love complicates matters - a marriage should be about practicality.”

“For the man as well as the woman?” Gendry asks with hesitation.

Theon smiles slickly. “Lady Stark,” he says, and Daenerys stirs in surprise at being called upon. “Perhaps you could give us your thoughts - does love belong in a marriage?”

Daenerys looks between the men - Gendry, Theon, Tyrion - until her sight falls on Robb. He watches her with dullness; it’s as if she’s just a wisp of smoke before his eyes. “Well,” she says, her hands suddenly restless in her lap. She peels at a pearl that has been embroidered into the fabric of her skirt. She continues with pause: “The vows state: _to love and to cherish._ It seems the decision has already been made for us.”

Theon’s lips curl. “No one is questioning your commitment to your dear husband. We only wondered about your view as a woman.”

“I am at fault,” Gendry says, “I just wanted Sir Stark’s advice on the matter.”

“You are to be married?” Daenerys asks him.

He flushes. “If she’ll have me.”

“Look at history,” Robb says. “None of us here have been born out of love. Our families have survived because agreements were made to better our wealth, and ensure the name lives on. Love is fickle - a marriage is acknowledged by law.” His statement makes the other men mutter in agreement.

Daenerys peels at another pearl. “Only if you think of love as a fleeting emotion,” she points out quietly. She didn’t mean for anyone to hear, but Robb’s glare tells her that her words were louder than the music.

“How’s that?” Gendry asks.

“Forgive my wife - she’s a _romantic_ ,” Robb says, the word sour on his lips.

Daenerys forces a smile of politeness. “It is true love can complicate things, but it can also sweeten time,” she says. “Some would prefer a so-called fleeting moment of joy over a lifetime of boredom.”

“Do you suggest momentary pleasure to be of greater importance than wealth?” Robb asks incredulously. “More important than passing on your family name?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Daenerys replies before she can stop herself, “I’ve already lost mine.”

The men go quiet. Robb’s eyes darken. His lips part, but before he can say a word, his eyes snap to the doorway. A smile softens his face. “Speaking of family,” he says and raises his hand in a wave.

Daenerys turns and pales in surprise; there, in the hall, stands Jon Snow. The gamekeeper is roughly dressed - his tuxedo jacket is a bit too long and his hair a bit too curly. The bow tie on his shirt sits askew. He stands with discomfort, but without shame; when guests look at him, he stares back at them boldly. “What is he doing here?” she asks.

“I invited him,” Robb says, and his smile deepens when Jon spots him and starts making his way toward the study, “he’s my brother.”

“Would you look at that,” Theon mumbles. He too looks shocked, but there’s an amused glimpse to his eyes. Daenerys finds he appears cruel. “The waiters are dressed better than he.”

“I lend him my garments. The poor lad didn’t even own a white shirt,” Robb says somberly.

Daenerys flushes as she turns to him: “You have better clothes than that to give!”

“He’s my brother, but a gamekeeper still,” Robb scoffs with warning to his voice, “he’s dressed just fine for his standing.”

There are many things that Daenerys wishes to say, but when Jon reaches them, she remains silent. She just watches him as he nods at each of the men, his movements curt.

“Evening,” Jon says. His voice is hoarse. “Thank you for inviting me, Sir Stark.”

“What a cold greeting,” Theon says in a huff, “it’s almost like you don’t remember me.”

Jon’s gaze lazily slips to him. “Of course I remember you, Theon.”

“That’s _Sir Greyjoy_ to you now.”

“We are all friends here,” Robb reminds them. He leans back in his chair, slowly smoking his cigarette as he eyes Jon. “It was good of you to come. I assume the woods must get lonely?”

“Not for me, Sir. Never was one for socialising.”

“No, it takes a certain person,” Theon points out.

Jon just looks at him. Between the men busying themselves with drinks and smokes, his hands look empty. He rests them on his back as he continues: “Father always said that a good man keeps himself busy. I intend to do just that.”

Robb’s smile wavers. It’s only for a second, but Daenerys notices it; how the sides of his lips pull, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly. “He did, didn’t he?” he says slowly. “Very well, there’s always work to do on the grounds, but it seems a tedious topic for a party.”

“I agree,” Daenerys says quickly. Though he doesn’t look at her, she senses Jon’s relief. “How about something more uplifting?”

“How about war?” Tyrion suggests with a wry smile. “I hear you fought, Mr Snow?”

“Aye, that I did.”

“Then you have my thanks. It’s because of men like you and your brother that I sleep at night.”

“Now, hold on - Sir Stark was an officer,” Theon makes a point of mentioning. “I take you were a private, Jon?”

“Nothing to it - we all did our duty,” Robb protests weakly, “no matter our rank.”

“Yes, but some of us perhaps did more than others.”

 _They wish to mock him,_ Daenerys realises as the men all turn to look at Jon. _He fought the same war as my husband, but his life is worth less._ The thought alone makes her heart ache. She looks for something to say, but Jon speaks first:

“I agree.” He nods and sends Theon an honest look as he asks: “So what did you do, _Sir Greyjoy?”_ His voice is pleasant, yet the silence that follows is cool.

Theon’s face grows red, and he fumbles with his flute of champagne. Daenerys can see how his hands shake. “I wasn’t conscripted,” he finally replies, “I was exempt.”

“You asked to go?”

The redness grows down Theon’s neck. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. His eyes, however, tell a story of their own; they’ve grown dark like a thunderstorm.

Daenerys stands up. “Would someone dance?” she asks.

The men peer at her, and she looks back at each of them with a keen look. She tries not to wring her hands at her front, but she feels an uneasiness inside of her. She’s jittery, and on edge - like an animal ready to flee.

“We were having a conversation,” her husband reminds her needlessly.

“Please,” Daenerys continues, “it’s a party, and talks of war and duty are beyond me.” Perhaps she sounds clueless, but she doesn’t mind - not when everyone seems to forget what they were arguing about. The men send each other pleading looks, neither of them willing to commit to engaging in the festivities.

It is Robb who speaks: “You used to dance, brother.” He looks at Jon with a little smile on his face. “Did you not?”

Jon looks surprised, but he nods: “Aye, many years ago.”

“You were good?”

“Two left feet,” Jon grumbles, still it only serves to deepen Robb’s smile.

“As you can see, I’m in no position to entertain my wife. Perhaps you would do me the honour and take my place in the ballroom? It is like you say - socialising is not your strongest suit, so perhaps this will keep you _busy.”_

Daenerys realises: _It is a punishment, for me as well as Jon._ For the first time that evening, he looks at her; his grey eyes are grave, and she wonders what he thinks. Is he upset and angry, or does he not even care enough to be annoyed about Robb’s proposition? Either way, he bows to etiquette as he says:

“Your Ladyship,” and holds out his arm, and she takes it, her smile hesitant as she replies:

“Mr Snow.”

They walk to the ballroom. The music is loud. The dancers are drenched in the summer heat. Daenerys feels herself sinking into a crowd of silk and chiffon, tuxedos and leather shoes, the smell of alcohol and cologne filling her and making her head buzz. _I could disappear,_ she thinks, _I could drown between these people and never be found._ But Jon keeps her in place.

His hands on her are big and rough, but not unkind. He leads her with unsteady feet, his body stiff and awkward, and his shoulders pushed back as if he’s about to march. _But he holds me,_ Daenerys thinks - his hand in hers, his fingertips caressing her waist, his breathing bashing to her face - _and he sees me._

The windows are wide open. The breeze barely drags through the thin curtains, but as she and Jon bump and push and stalk their way across the floor, Daenerys thinks she can smell the outside; the dry soil, the wet woodlands, the scent of the forest beckoning her. _Or perhaps,_ she realises, looking at Jon’s sturdy face, _it is him I can taste in the air._

Daenerys closes her eyes. She is back in the forest. It is like when she first married Robb; they’re in the woods, and it is dark, and the sun has long left the sky. They fumble their way forward. They gasp and reach for one another. His breath on her ear reminds her that he’s there. But when she turns to look, it is not Robb’s outline that she sees in the night. It is Jon, and he speaks:

“Your Ladyship,” and she answers in a whisper:

“Yes?”

“Come,” he says, and he holds her close, and she lets herself sink into his worn garments, soak up the smell of gunpowder and cheap tobacco and dirt. When they walk, it is as one, and she never wants the sun to rise again above the tree crowns.

But when Jon stops, she opens her eyes. She is back in the ballroom. The band has finished their song. The fluttering in her ears is not of leaves blowing in the wind, but clapping, and she too lets go of Jon’s hand as she joins in to cheer the band. Still it’s Jon she watches, and he watches her, a peculiar darkness to his face.

“That was wonderful,” she says, resting her hands on her back as she catches her breath. She is not certain for how long they have danced. Her heart is beating quickly, and her cheeks are quite pink. “Would you care to lead me in another?”

“Forgive me, your Ladyship,” Jon replies briskly, “but I’m afraid this was a mistake.”

“How so?” Daenerys asks, surprised.

Jon’s face twists into a grimace. He glares around them, avoiding her confused gaze as he says: “This is no place for a gamekeeper. Would your Ladyship excuse me?”

Daenerys feels a longing in her body, an urge to feel freedom, and she wants to say: “No, I wish to dance some more.” But the look on Jon’s face is one of pain. He looks flustered, and she can only mutter: “Of course,” before he takes off, a curt nod of his head the only goodbye. She watches him as he pushes his way through the dancers, his pacing quick. It’s not until he stalks through the hallway that she notices them; there, at the entrance to the ballroom, stands Theon and Robb. Their faces are amused. When Jon passes by them, they don’t ask him to stay.

* * *

A storm is coming. Daenerys can hear the wind rustling in the trees as she walks the woods, and she can smell rain in the air. Yet she carries on, her sight focused ahead as she nears the clearing in the forest. It is early in the morning. She can still taste yesterday’s party on her lips; the sparkling champagne, and the men’s cigarette smoke. But also the lingering heat from Jon. It visited her in the night, as strong and hot as a strike of thunder. The sensation woke her and left her breathless.

 _Is it a nightmare that drags me here,_ Daenerys wonders as she pauses between the branches, her gaze now resting on the old cottage, _or the hope for a dream?_

It is quiet, even the chirping of birds is scarce. The coops stand empty. Daenerys peers through the wooden bars as she passes them by. She wonders how big the pheasants have grown, and if they are yet to be shot. She wonders if life has a purpose if lived only in a cage. But by the door her mind quiets. She stares at the chipped wood, the rusty handle, and the worn stone-step. She breathes in the air. The breeze should be light and fresh, but instead it makes her tense. She lifts her hand. She knocks on the door.

Something moves on the other side. There’s a slamming against wood. The floorboards creak. Then silence follows. As Daenerys knocks again, Jon’s voice sounds like a bark: “Aye, I know, I know! I’m coming. Don’t you see the sun has barely risen?”

Daenerys suppresses a smile and takes a step back. When the door swings open, she tries to hold back a blush. Jon stands on the threshold, his curly hair a mess atop his head and his shirt hanging open. He’s still pulling it on when he spots her and stops.

“Your Ladyship,” Jon says, and he slowly slips the sleeves on fully. He doesn’t turn, but sends her an almost brazen look as he does up the buttons and adds: “I expected someone else.”

“I apologise for calling in so early - I hope I didn’t wake you?” Daenerys says.

Jon sniffles in and coughs to the side. “Sir Stark owns the land. I suspect your Ladyship can do whatever she pleases on them no matter the time of day.”

Daenerys can’t help but note the tinge of coolness to Jon’s voice. Whereas he previously spoke with quiet heat, he now seems distant. He stands in the doorway, broad and imposing, blocking her entry. He is nothing like the Jon that visited her thoughts in the night. She tries not to look upset. “I suppose,” she says, choosing her words with care, “but that doesn’t mean I would like to.” She waits but, as Jon says nothing, continues: “I came to see how you’re feeling.”

“I didn’t know my health was part of your Ladyship’s duties,” Jon replies curtly.

“I never mentioned duty.”

“Aye - well, I am alive for another day.”

“What a peculiar answer.”

“It is a peculiar task for a lady to mind her gamekeeper’s affairs,” Jon points out.

Daenerys crinkles her nose and gives him an odd look. “Have I offended you?” she asks.

“Sir Stark asked you here?” Jon returns the question, although it sounds more like a statement.

“Do you think I exist only to do his biddings?” If she hoped for Jon’s face to change, she is disappointed; he doesn’t even blink. “You left the party so soon. I only thought to check on you in case you were unwell.” She pauses as she gazes into his stubborn eyes and huffs: “I now see I shouldn’t have bothered.”

Jon rests his thumbs in his belt-loops. “Forgive me, your Ladyship, only I don’t take kindly to mockery.”

“Then it would be best of you not to engage in it,” Daenerys points out. The thrill she felt when setting out for the woods that morning has long been replaced with shivers of cold. She suddenly senses how early it is, and how cool the sun shines. The forest offers her no comfort. She pulls her shawl closely around her frame as she straightens up. “I see I have overstayed my welcome. I will take my leave.” She turns, but before she can take a step, Jon reaches for her.

His strong hand closes at her wrist. It is only for a second, and the moment she looks his way, he pulls back as if burned. She feels it too; how his touch lingers on her skin. He looks like he wants to apologise. Instead he asks: “Sir Stark did not send you?” This time, there is confused curiosity to his voice.

Daenerys closes her other hand around her wrist as she shakes her head. “I may be married, but I have my own body and mind,” she points out. She can’t help an air of annoyance to her words. “Do you think he commands me?”

“I think he commands his estate.”

“Well, I am not part of the furnishing,” Daenerys reminds him hotly. She wants to sound stern, but her voice is tinged with quiet desperation. She dislikes the effect Jon has on her emotions, and she pointedly turns her back on him as she stares into the woods. The tree crowns rustle. The wind is picking up. She can feel it blow wetly against her face. She takes in a deep breath before setting off toward the forest edge. “Good day to you, Mr Snow.”

“Your Ladyship,” Jon calls, but she doesn’t stop. She can hear him; his boots make a dull noise against the ground as he follows her. “I didn’t mean to cause upset.”

“Then you should learn to speak with kindness.”

“Aye, but emotions rarely experienced can be hard to impersonate.”

“Then allow yourself to feel them,” Daenerys says as she stops to face him. She didn’t realise how close he is; when she turns on her heels, she finds herself staring into his grey eyes. The smells of him surround her - cheap tobacco and fresh sweat. The rough fabric of his shirt brushes to her hands. She feels herself blush, yet she doesn’t step away. She allows herself to linger in his presence.

Jon looks down at her. His face is hard, but his eyes are soft. “How so, your Ladyship?” he asks.

Daenerys senses he could mock her, yet his tone of voice is gentle. She tries to retain a look of irritation to her face as she returns his bold stare. “By breaking free of the cage,” she says.

For a moment, Jon seems to consider her words. Then, his gaze slips to the sky and he coughs: “It’s going to rain.”

Daenerys looks up. The clouds have gathered darkly above the trees. She can feel a brush of water on her shawl. It makes her shiver. “I really must go,” she says.

“Good day, your Ladyship,” Jon replies, though he remains standing before her. He is like when she arrived; broad, and imposing.

 _But also present,_ Daenerys thinks, still staring up at him. She can see it in her eyes. He looks at her the way Robb used to; with quiet desire. Her fingertips cling onto her shawl. She forces herself to avert her eyes. “Good day,” she says once more, and she takes off down the path, her heart beating swiftly in her chest.

Daenerys walks quickly as the rain starts falling around her. In the thick woods, it is but a light dusting across the forest floor, but once she reaches the fields, she finds herself exposed to the wet wind. It drags at her hat and soaks her dress. By the time she reaches the mansion, she is cold and quivering, and she longs for her warm bed. But a voice stops her before she can climb the stairs.

“My Lady.” Margaery appears in the doorway to Robb’s office. She is dressed in plain grey, but her eyes glow as lively as always. When she crosses the floor, they seem to glimmer in the flickering light falling through the rain from outside. “You are drenched, my Lady. Should I pour you a bath?”

Daenerys watches the office. Margaery left the door askew, but a hand now reaches out and closes it from within. _Robb,_ she knows instinctively. She swallows not to make a sound. “Thank you, Miss Tyrell,” she says, only slowly dragging her eyes back to the nurse. “But I will ask Miss Poole to assist me.”

“Were you in the woods?”

Daenerys’ hold on the bannister tightens. She stares at the woman. Her mouth suddenly feels very dry. “I went for a walk,” she finally replies. She is not certain, but she thinks she sees the sides of Margaery’s lips twitch. It bothers her more than she’d like to admit. “The weather was beautiful this morning. I never expected it to rain.”

“You should be careful around Mr Snow,” Margaery says.

Daenerys blinks. “Excuse me?” she says with incredulity.

The smile on Margaery’s lips is pleasant, yet her eyes seem filled with quiet glee. As she climbs the bottom steps to reach Daenerys, she doesn’t look away. “Forgive me, my Lady,” she says, stopping at Daenerys’ side, “but I feel it’s my duty to warn you - your new gamekeeper may seem approachable, but he’s not to be trusted.”

“I am not sure what you’re insinuating,” Daenerys says, and she takes a further step up the stairs, looking down at Margaery. She tries to place her face into neutral folds. She senses that she frowns nonetheless. “Mr Snow tends to whatever work my husband asks of him. He is not here for his conversational skills, so I take little interest in his person.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, my Lady,” Margaery speaks, taking a step too, levelling herself with Daenerys once more. She peers into her eyes as she continues: “I would feel terrible if something was to happen.”

“As said,” Daenerys speaks, taking a step, “Mr Snow is perfectly capable of attending to his duties, and I ask nothing more.”

Margaery takes another step. “You should speak to your husband,” she urges.

“My husband hired Mr Snow,” Daenerys reminds her, taking another step. They are reaching the stop of the stairs, and she is starting to feel a heat boiling in her chest. From the first time she met Margaery, she hated her and pitied her at once; despised her influence on her husband, but felt bad for seeing a woman ensnared. Now, her feelings of sympathy are wearing down.

“My Lady-” Margaery starts, but before she can take another step, Daenerys turns and faces her, blocking her way.

“Miss Tyrell,” she says, her voice calm but sharp. She folds her hands at her front. “Let me remind you that despite his title, Mr Snow is still my husband’s brother and therefore part of this family. I should like it if you did not speak ill of him.” She pauses for effect.

Margaery watches her. There is a peculiar glimpse to her eyes. Daenerys thinks that she looks almost impressed. She parts her lips to speak: “My Lady-” but she stops herself. She smiles. She curtsies. “Of course, my Lady,” she says, her voice as sweet as honey. “I meant no offence.”

“Of course not,” Daenerys says, forcing a smile to her lips, “I would never make such an assumption, Miss Tyrell.” She turns and continues up the stairs with slow, determined steps. But her feet long to run and put distance between herself and Robb’s nurse, and the moment she’s turned a corner, she finds herself hurrying back to her room.

The bedroom is cold and clammy. The windows have been left open. Rain has pooled on the wood in front of the glass. Daenerys closes them with a shiver and stares through the dampness toward the forest edge. It seems covered in a watery mist. She wonders how Jon is. She wonders if he’s thinking of her. She wonders what Margaery meant when she said not to trust him.

 _He is just a gamekeeper to me,_ she reminds herself as she undresses, her wet clothing becoming a pile on the floor, _and I am just a Lady to him._

* * *

Yet Jon visits her in the night.

Daenerys is warm. Her hands are soft. But when she strokes them between her legs, they become rough. The air around her is not sweetened with perfumes, but thick with the stench of gunpowder and man, and her lips are not free to breathe, rather they’re kissed, and needed, and loved.

It is night. The storm rages outside; it drags at the windows, and the wind whistles through every crack in the mansion, filling the halls with a hollow moan. It drowns out Daenerys’ sounds - her gasps, and whispers, and silent pleadings, all directed at the man who exists in her body at that very moment. She feels him, and she sees him:

Jon, strong and dirty, his shirt hanging open, his hair messy atop his head, his smile mocking as he draws her close by the waist, kisses her lips, pushes his fingers inside of her. He wants all of her, from the nipples on her breasts to her soft stomach to her wet sex. He licks her. He tastes her. When he enters her, he is powerful, but kind. She hears him speak:

“Your Ladyship,” and she begs:

“Call me Daenerys,” and he does:

“Daenerys,” his voice thick and wry, his eyes hard, his teeth pulling at her gown, “do you trust me?”

Daenerys awakes with a gasp. She sits up in bed. Her body is sticky with perspiration, and her hand feels numb. She can smell herself on her fingers. When she feels how her legs drag together, she flushes with shame.

 _I am not behaving like a wife,_ she scolds herself, taking in a deep breath. She feels like she’s been running. Her heart beats quickly in her chest. She clenches her hand to the fabric of her nightgown. She almost expects to feel him there - a kiss, a bite, a scent of his existence. But there is nothing - she is alone in the bedroom.

Daenerys crawls out of bed. She pulls on a dressing gown. The fabric is embroidered and thin, and it offers her little comfort against the cold. As she walks the hallway, she shivers in the darkness that resides. It must be late, she thinks, since not even the serving girls are making noise from the kitchen. She wonders if Robb is asleep in his office. From the top of the stairs, she can see a faint light falling out from beneath his door. It makes her feel warm with guilt.

 _I spend the night dreaming of his brother whilst he works,_ Daenerys thinks, descending the stairs. It is as if she can still hear her dream; the rustling of clothes, the breathless kissing, the faint thumping noise as Jon thrusts into her, the bed beneath her groaning from his movements.

But, Daenerys realises as she reaches the hall, she _can_ hear him. The noises are quiet, but they grow louder with every step. Despite the storm, and the hammering rain, and the creaking of floorboards, and the whistling from the wind - despite it all, she can hear them. And through the keyhole she can see them:

Robb, in his chair, leaned against the backrest as Margaery rocks across his lap. Her skirts are pulled up. Her arms hang around his neck. As they move, the flickering candles around them light up their frames, making their shadows on the wall kiss.

Daenerys claps her hand over her mouth not to cry in surprise. She steps backwards away from the door. She closes her eyes. The image still lingers - as if permanently engraved in her mind, she sees it playing across her lids: her husband and his nurse. She feels bile creep up her throat. She could vomit, and scream, and cry. But instead she flees.

The night is cold and wet. Daenerys is not wearing shoes. As she runs across the fields, she feels pebbles scratch at the soles of her feet, tear her skin open, make her bleed. But she doesn’t stop. She dares not to - if she stops, she thinks, she will collapse and not be able to get back up. She will let the images in her head overwhelm her. She will fall victim to the storm.

So she runs; into the woods, her hands brushing in the dark for something she recognises. She is reminded of her younger years, of how she would play with Robb in the dark. It was always exciting. Now, she is frightened. The sounds of the night are different from those of the day; the birds screech, and wild animals run alongside her in the thick shrub, and the creaking from the tree crowns bending in the wind seem menacing. The trail on her gown is torn by a barren branch. When she stumbles on the footpath, her hands sink into the wet mud and dirty her. Yet she carries on.

Daenerys is not certain for how long she runs. She only knows that by the time she reaches the clearing, she is breathless, and sweaty, and sobbing. Her body aches. Her palms are sore. Her feet can barely keep her up as she stumbles forward, her hands grasping at the cottage. She knocks on everything in desperation - the stone walls and the shuttered windows and the door.

A dog barks. A light turns on. She can hear the warning cock of a rifle inside. Jon’s voice is rough as he demands: “Who is it?”

Daenerys can’t even reply. When she parts her lips to speak, she sobs. What could she say, she wonders. That her life has fallen apart, that her husband has taken another for his bed, that she is doomed to live the rest of her life in a failed marriage, smiling at guests, pretending that happiness is something she has claim to?

 _Or,_ Daenerys thinks as the door swings open and Jon sees her, his angry stare softening at once into shock, _that I desperately crave to be loved as much as I love?_

She doesn’t have to speak. Jon drops the rifle, and he reaches out, and he pulls her in. His hold is strong, and in his arms she feels comforted. She can cling onto him, and bury her head to his chest, and sob as her body submits to his safety. She needs him, and Jon doesn’t reject her; he holds her, and he guides her, leading her into his warmth as he shuts the door, locking out the raging storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter! It's been a pleasant surprise that so many of you feel for the characters and want to see how the story progresses. I can't wait to share more with you!
> 
> Today's art by DragonandDirewolf is obviously a punch in the feels. If that doesn't make you feel for Daenerys, I don't know what will!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. To have and to hold

Daenerys wonders when she became numb.

Was it on the doctor’s table, when the old man pulled Robb aside for a word, her legs still spread and her sex exposed, as if her womanhood deserved no privacy once its purpose had run out. Or was it before then, when Catelyn was still alive, and she would watch over Robb as were he a child, never allowing them a moment alone. _Or perhaps,_ she thinks, _perhaps even earlier than that._

Perhaps it started on their wedding night. The room was dark. Robb didn’t light any candles. They undressed themselves, shy, the blackness of the room like a cloak of modesty around their naked frames. When he touched her, he was gentle, and in the pale light from the moon falling in, she saw only love in his eyes.

_But,_ Daenerys thinks, peering down at Jon. He sits at her feet. His rough hands hold her at the heels. He dips a cloth into a basin at his side, the water cool and clean, and he wipes her soles, dragging blood and dirt off her skin. When he looks up, his grey eyes are bold, but not unkind. _But perhaps, he never saw me in the night. From the shadows on my face, another woman appeared, and it was her that he loved._

Jon’s thumb brushes a bruise on her ankle, and it makes Daenerys wince: “That hurts.”

“Sorry.” Jon dips the cloth, and he presses the cold fabric to the spot, allowing her a moment of relief from the throbbing pain. “It looks like your Ladyship is warming up.”

“How so?” Daenerys asks, pushing back into the chair. The wood is old, and it creaks at her every movement. Her small body is wrapped in a thick blanket. It offers her a decency her torn gown can no longer provide.

Jon glances up at her. “Your Ladyship didn’t feel my touch before,” he says, “because your skin was freezing. You’ve warmed up.” He wraps his hands around her feet and gives them a light squeeze, and Daenerys shudders with ache and anticipation all at once.

_It is true,_ she thinks. Even in the woods, as the shrubs tore and ripped at her body, she barely noticed it. Yet now, she senses everything; from the tickle of his fingertips to the faint brush of his breath. It shivers through her body. It makes her heartbeat quicken. But she knows he mistakes the reason. It is not the fireplace making her warm, despite the golden flames pecking her with their heat - it is _him;_ under his watchful eyes, she can breathe once more, and feel once more. His presence melts her numbness away.

Jon lets go of her heels and he gets up with a grunt. He walks to his desk, rummages through the drawers with impatience, and then returns with bandages. He wraps her feet with knowing hands. She imagines he’s done it many times before; in Germany, in the trenches, when no one else was around to assist.

As if he reads his mind, he smirks. “Aye,” he says, “at war, you become your own doctor.”

“Sometimes in life as well,” Daenerys replies quietly.

Jon’s eyes narrow in thought, but he doesn’t question her. He rips the fabric apart with a harsh gnaw of his teeth, and ties it at her ankle. “It is a peculiar time,” he says roughly, grabbing her other foot and repeating the treatment, “for your Ladyship to be walking the woods.” He looks up at her, teeth still clenched around the end of the bandage, and Daenerys meets his gaze.

She wants to seem unbothered, but her voice comes out hurried: “The scars on your chest. Are they from the war?” She waits, her breath hot in her mouth, and she wonders: _will he ask?_ She is not certain she could tell him. She is not certain she _wants_ to tell him. She is embarrassed, and angry, and upset, and indifferent, all at once. When she closes her eyes, the images play across her lids; Robb, and his nurse. So she stares, pointedly.

Jon spits out the bandage. He licks his lips. Then, he nods. “Aye, they are. We fought with more than bullets.”

“Do they still hurt?”

Jon licks his lips again as he shakes his head. “They are healed. All scars heal eventually. A wound either kills you, or it makes you fight harder.” He ties the knot, leaving both her feet perfectly bandaged, and then stands up. He wipes his hands off in his trousers before offering her one. “But your cuts are small, your Ladyship. In a few weeks, it’ll be as if they never existed.”

Daenerys glaces from her toes to Jon’s hand. Small bits of dirt still cling onto the creases in his palm. She can smell the forest floor on him; mud and rain and wind. She grabs it. She lets him lead her to her feet. The pain is dull. She feels it as a slight pulsation through her legs. “Thank you, Mr Snow,” she says, “but I’m afraid I must disagree; not all scars are visible. Some remain in the heart long after the body has mended.”

“What troubles your Ladyship’s heart?” Jon asks brazenly.

Daenerys flushes, and she finds she cannot look him in the eyes. Instead she focuses on his neck. His Adam’s apple rocks when he swallows. She wonders if she would feel his pulse beneath it if she were to press her lips to his skin. “If I were to ask my husband,” she says, choosing her words with care, “he would say that feelings have nothing to do with the heart. The heart is of the body, and the body is of no concern to a man of mind.”

“I didn’t ask your husband,” Jon says. He grabs her curtly by the chin and pushes her head back, forcing her to look into his eyes as he continues: “I asked your Ladyship.” His grey eyes are tense.

Daenerys finds she can barely speak. In fact, she can barely see; her eyes well with tears, and they drag down her cheeks as she watches him. What can she say, she wonders, to a man who asks only for the truth. Robb has never concerned himself with the contents of her heart, understanding just that which he can see. If she smiles, she is happy. If she cries, she is upset. As a man of mind, he knows only how to read her feelings.

But as a man of body, Jon knows how to soothe them. Like now, as he brushes her tears away, his thumbs warm against her skin, and as his fingertips push into her silver hair, teasing just beneath her ear, and as he leans in, but stops, the mere shake of her shoulders enough to give him pause.

_He knows,_ Daenerys thinks, closing her eyes as she draws in a shivering breath, _and he understands._ By the time she opens her eyes again, he’s pulled back. He lingers in the shadows of the cottage. In the darkness, she can’t read the expression on his face, but she can sense it: brooding his purpose.

Jon coughs. He wipes his lips off in the back of his hand. “Your Ladyship should stay,” he says.

“I couldn’t impose,” Daenerys replies, though she remains standing, the blanket tugged around her body, her hands clenching the fabric.

“The storm is cruel, more so at night,” Jon replies brusquely. “Your Ladyship will take my bed by the fire. In the morning, the path home will be clear.”

Daenerys parts her lips to protest, but one look from Jon makes her silent. He is not asking her, she realises - he’s _telling_ her. So she nods. “Thank you, Mr Snow,” she says, a heat building in her chest, “that’s very kind of you.”

“No bother, your Ladyship,” Jon says dismissively.

“But where will you sleep?”

Jon watches her for a moment longer than necessary before replying: “War taught me to sleep sitting. Don’t worry, your Ladyship - I will give you privacy.” With that, he pulls at the curtain hung from the ceiling, splitting the room into two; her, by the mattress and the fire, and he in the shadows of the door. She can’t see him, but she can hear him, moving furniture about as he settles in for the night.

_But he can see me,_ she thinks, the fire casting her shadow across the thin fabric. A shade is barely intimate, yet, as she shrugs out of the blanket, she feels as exposed as if she were nude. It should shame her, she muses, but instead it excites her, and she takes her time settling in beneath the duvet, her skin prickling with the heat from the fire.

Jon has slept there recently - Daenerys knows not just from the unmade bed, but from the scents; sweat and cheap tobacco linger on his pillow. As she falls asleep, it settles in her mind, and when she closes her eyes, she no longer sees Robb and Margaery. She sees Jon. She sees herself. She is atop of him, or perhaps he is atop of her. Their bodies are so close that she cannot tell the difference. She only knows that when she kisses him, nothing else matters.

* * *

In the night, the flames die out. Daenerys wakes with a mist escaping her lips. It is dark around her, the only light the faint gleam of the embers in the fireplace. They glow red in the blackness - and so does he.

Daenerys doesn’t understand it at first. It’s like a flame, hot and small, a flicker of light hovering the air in the corner. She lies still, and she stares, her eyes slowly reading the darkness. Her sight returns gradually; first, the floor, and the walls, and the old desk by the window, and the table, and the chair - and then, _him:_

Jon, on a stool in the corner, cigarette between his lips, the ashes burning red from its tip as he smokes. He must have pulled the curtain back in the night, she realises, just enough to allow him sight of her. Because he does see her; when he inhales, the glow lights up his grey eyes peering back at her, and when he breathes out, the smoke surrounds his lips. A wry smile lingers on his face. It makes her heart skip a beat.

_Maybe I am asleep,_ Daenerys thinks, _maybe this is another dream, another craving._ But the cold feels real. It rests on her lashes like fresh morning dew, and crackles on the surface of the duvet where frost has pecked the fabric. When she stretches her hand out from beneath the covers, she feels it surround her like a winter breeze. Perhaps it’s from the storm, still roaring outside, still dragging at the shutters, hammering on the door. She only knows this:

“I am cold.” Her voice is faint. It drowns in the sounds of the creaking cottage.

Jon doesn’t stir - but he has heard her. He has another drag of his cigarette. The smoke gleams on his lips. “Could feed the flames,” he replies. His voice is rough, like sandpaper. It teases her as much as his eyes.

“It takes time to burn.”

“Could get another blanket.”

“Come.” Daenerys hears her pleading before she realises she’s spoken it. Her hand twitches. Her fingers pull. She waves him over. _“Come.”_

Jon smokes his cigarette. For a moment, Daenerys thinks he intends to remain seated, just watching her. But then he stands. He walks. The floorboards creak below him. The smoke hangs from his lips. She can smell the tobacco in the air - it’s cheap, and rough on her senses. Just like the look on his face as he hovers her, watches her, the ashes scattering in the air.

Daenerys turns onto her back. Despite the cold, a warmth has settled between her thighs. She tugs her knees together as she meets his gaze. What she’s about to do is unheard of, she knows. Surely it happens, but she imagines other ladies meet their lovers in fine chambers, their secret kept by trustful servants. Never do they show in his home, on a mattress on the floor, vulnerable and alone.

_But I am not vulnerable,_ Daenerys reminds herself, her hands closing at the duvet, _and I am not alone._ She pulls it aside. She reveals herself; pale, and small, and shivering, her gown just a thin piece of fabric resting atop her shape. It is ripped. Her midriff is exposed. In the shine from the embers, she glows softly orange.

Jon licks his lips. He flickers the rest of his smoke into the fireplace. He kicks off his shoes - she hears them, dully, as they slipper across the floor. Next comes his suspenders. One thumb under each. They fall loosely at his hips. He reaches for his shirt. He undoes the first button before she tells him:

“Stop.” His fingers dig into the collar. He waits, with pause, with confusion. Daenerys holds out her hand. She whispers: “Come to me.” She wants to feel him, she knows. Not just the naked him, but all of him; as he is, in his roughspun dirty garments, the man she sees every day and yet rarely talks to. The man who has haunted her dreams for months. The Jon Snow that both mocks her and excites her in the same breath.

The Jon Snow that now climbs onto the mattress, hovers her, a hand on each side of her face, his body only just brushing to her own. She feels his cold, and his heat. She feels his tense weight - first, in the air, then, on top of her, as he lowers himself, as he surrounds her.

Daenerys is pushed back into the mattress. She gasps at his touch. Her hands reach up to feel him - his face, strong, the jawline pronounced beneath his beard, and his curls, thick, swirling around her fingers. She stares up at him, and he looks back at her, their breaths hot in the cold air between them. And then he kisses her.

His lips are warm, wet, and demanding. He kisses her the same way he looks at her; boldly, roughly, without inhibitions. His tongue is in her mouth. He swallows her breath. If she makes a sound, it is not audible in the room. It disappears into him as she becomes one with him.

His shirt is thick. His trousers are loose at his hips. Daenerys easily drags them down with her knees as her legs spread, allowing him to settle between her thighs. She can feel him through the fabric; hard, and ready - and taste his excitement on his mouth; the way he bites at her lips and grunts to her skin - and sense his desires on his hands; eager, and tough, brushing to every inch of her body.

No part of her is left unloved: her neck is kissed and her breasts are caressed and her stomach is touched and her buttocks are squeezed and her hips are grazed. She is not just some woman in his bed, she thinks. He can’t just push into her and create a new image in his head, not when he’s already felt so much of her. When he looks at her, he _sees_ her; when he takes her, he _knows_ her.

Daenerys gasps as her body welcomes Jon inside of it. It has only had her husband, and he was predictable and quick. Jon, however, is anything but; when he moves, it is slowly, his hips rocking forward until he’s embedded in her heat, and when he draws back it’s with care, as if he wishes to linger at every moment. His demeanour may be curt, she thinks, but his body knows how to love.

Daenerys’ hands drag from his hair down his back. Her nails tug at the loose threads in his shirt. Her body arches beneath his - from pleasure, and from a need to be closer. She tastes his lips, but it’s not enough. She smells his sweat, but it’s not enough. She feels his rocking, his hands on her hips, his moans in her mouth - and yet it’s not enough. Not when she’s been put aside for years, like a disregarded plaything, so often forgotten that in the end she forgot herself.

But Jon is discovering her. He is reclaiming the time that she has lost. He is allowing her pleasure; and pleasure she feels when he takes her like a man, her body weak between his hands, her mouth sore from his kisses. She is wet, and she is greedy. When he picks up the pace, she doesn’t stop him. She draws her legs up, her knees locking at his hips, and she meets his thrusts until she can no longer think to move.

When she comes, it is as if her insides have been set on fire. It spreads through her body, quickly and hard, like a flame comes alive on a struck match. She moans, his name escaping her lips now politeness serves no purpose: “Jon!” and she thinks she hears him too:

_“Daenerys,”_ as he finishes deep inside of her heat. She doesn’t think to deny him. It feels wonderful, she thinks, to be a woman and to be taken like one, to allow a man to know her intimately. Her empty bed can no longer compete with the gamekeeper’s mattress, just like she senses her arms will always feel empty when not wrapped around his sturdy frame.

So she holds him, tightly, keeping him inside of her as they relax. Their hearts echo in each other’s chest. Their breaths mix. Their lips still kiss, slowly, lazily, and their hands still touch, gently, knowingly.

Daenerys could laugh with relief, and she could cry from longing. She is not certain which sound would escape her mouth if she was to open it, so she doesn’t speak. She just nestles her face close to his chest as the darkness starts lifting and the storm makes way for the quiet morning outside.

* * *

The sun has not fully risen when Daenerys stirs. Heat bashes to her frame, and she shrugs free of the duvet with a warm gasp for air. The fireplace has been lit. Flames once more flicker up the blackened chimney. In their light, she can see that she is alone in the cottage - but not in the woods. The front door is ajar. The shape of Jon’s back shows through the opening. He is a stark shadow against the grey light. He is smoking again. She can smell the tobacco long before she reaches the threshold.

“Good morning,” she greets.

Jon blows smoke toward the sky. The moon is still visible above the tree crowns, like a faint reminder that the night has only just passed. He pulls his gaze from the forest to her. He nods: “Morning, your Ladyship,” and has another drag of the cigarette.

Daenerys leans against the doorway as she watches him. She feels like she’s stuck between contradictions; the heat of the cottage and the cold of the woods, the softness of Jon’s eyes and the hardness of his face. The gentle way he kissed her, and the rough way he took her. The memory makes her blush. As he stares into her eyes, she averts her gaze. “I should head back,” she says, “before the servants wake.”

“Aye,” Jon mutters, turning the cigarette between his fingertips. His voice is gruff as he continues: “Though your Ladyship might find most servants start work before dawn.”

“What are you implying?” Daenerys asks confused.

Jon stares bitterly at his smoke. “Nothing,” he mumbles, and he throws it aside as he stands up. He turns to face her. He gestures at her feet. “How’re they doing?” he asks.

Daenerys peers down at her toes. “I didn’t even feel them ache in the night. I think you’re right - they’ll heal just fine.”

“Scars always heal,” Jon replies, but his voice seems oddly distant.

Daenerys peers up at him. “Have I offended you?” she asks.

Jon spits to the side and says: “Let’s get you in some clothes,” and, as he brushes past her, adds: _“Your Ladyship.”_

Daenerys watches Jon with perplexion as he rummages around his drawers for something to offer her. He seems detached, she thinks, very unlike his demeanour last night. _I didn’t dream it,_ she reminds herself, and her hand brushes to her thighs as if to see if she can still sense his touch. _He was here. He was inside of me._ But Jon acts as if no time has passed since they parted at the ball; he’s curt, and solemn, and when he offers her boots and a coat, it’s with a thrust of his hand rather than a gentle suggestion. She dresses in silence. His back is turned on her the whole time. For some reason, it makes her heart ache.

Daenerys readies herself to walk the woods alone, but Jon insists: “I’ll lead you,” so they set off together. The birds are waking. They chirp and flutter between the trunks, sometimes brushing so closely to the path that she thinks she feels the bash of their wings. Her feet are too small for Jon’s boots, and her body too short for his coat, so she walks slowly, careful not to trip in his belongings. They smell of him. It should bring her joy. But the timid look on his face only makes her stomach clench.

At the edge of the forest, Jon stops. He glances toward the mansion on the other side of the fields. “I will leave you here, your Ladyship,” he says and turns to walk.

Daenerys stops him with a: “Jon.” He pauses. She can’t see his face, not with his back turned on her, but she can tell the hesitation in his stance. She clutches onto the large coat sleeves, shivering slightly in the cold bashing against her exposed legs, but she remains standing, staring, quietly beckoning him to look at her. “Was I mistaken?” she asks. Her voice is painfully frail. She finds it lost to the breeze.

“About what, your Ladyship?”

“You called me Daenerys,” Daenerys points out, “last night.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees, “we shared a night.”

Daenerys forces herself not to sob. Instead, her voice has heat as she asks: “Was that all it was to you? A night?”

“Is it all it was to you?” He turns his head. He peers over his shoulder. When she meets his gaze, she is shocked by the look he sends her - it is pale, and tense. It makes her hold her breath. “I’m just a gamekeeper, your Ladyship, and I am no man of mind like my brother, and no man of money, and no man of worth.”

“That is not true,” Daenerys whispers.

“But I know this, your Ladyship,” he continues, now turning, facing her as he speaks: “You told me Robb believes the heart to be of the body, and the body to be lesser than the mind. But it seems to me that a man who only loves your Ladyship’s mind does not love her at all.” He coughs, a throaty noise that reminds them both of where he has been; in London, in the slump, in the kind of poverty that marks a body for life. Yet he pushes on: “You said the heart doesn’t always heal. Aye, I believe that is true. So forgive me, your Ladyship, but I am already scarred, and I fear another nick in my body will be my undoing.”

Daenerys can scarcely believe the words she’s hearing, nor what she’s seeing - the sheer pain on Jon’s pale face as he stares boldly back at her. _To speak such words of power with such ease,_ she thinks, reaching out, her hands closing at his face, _he is no ordinary man._ Before she can think not to, she kisses him. It is short, it is hard. It leaves both of them breathless by the time she pulls away.

“I told you,” Daenerys says, looking into Jon’s eyes, “you must allow yourself to feel, Mr Snow.”

Jon looks like he wishes to speak, but instead he nods. When she lets go of his cheeks, he reaches up to touch them, his hands lingering where her heat was. “Your Ladyship,” he mutters and looks away.

“Mr Snow,” Daenerys speaks with a curtsy before she takes off across the fields.

The light is growing stronger. The grey darkness is disappearing. As the first strong flicker of sunlight pecks her face, Daenerys faces the sky, and a smile breaks out on her lips. Soon, laughter follows. She feels like a child again, so full of excitement and optimism for the future, unafraid and unashamed of being alive.

The hallway is silent. The steps don’t creak. She slips upstairs unobserved and enters her bedroom right as the sun spills its colours across the lawn. She stands in her window, watching the red and gold set the woods aflame, and she sees Jon, still lingering at the forest edge, his eyes searching for her.

* * *

Daenerys bathes. She dresses. Her torn gown is discarded, and Jon’s boots and coat are carefully wrapped and hidden beneath her bed. She wears perfume. His scent still seems to linger; as if he’s bruised her with his love. She supposes it’s her imagination. The only marks are on her feet, and she easily hides those in a pair of shoes. When she looks in the mirror, she finds a proper lady staring back at her, tall and proud.

Yet when she sits down for breakfast with Robb, she feels _dirty._ She reminds herself that she shouldn’t - it was he who abandoned her, who rejected her advances, who denied to share her bed. It was he who stayed up at night, inviting his nurse to his office. It was he who broke their promises: _to have and to hold from this day forward._ He never has her, he never holds her. All the same, the guilt sits thickly on Daenerys’ tongue and makes it hard for her to chew.

Robb doesn’t look at her. He reads his newspaper. He eats his bread. He drinks his coffee.

Daenerys rests her hands in her lap. She can’t help but to ask: “How did you sleep?”

Robb doesn’t flinch. He flips a page. “Poorly.”

“Oh? How come?”

“The storm raged all night. I stayed up working.”

“Alone?” Daenerys asks.

Robb’s gaze briefly flickers to her face, but he resumes his reading almost immediately. “You were asleep,” he says, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“That’s nice of you,” she replies. Her hand shakes when she sips her tea. Her eyes seek out of the window, across the fields, toward the forest. She calms herself at the sight of it, the way it glows green in the morning light. “It’s a lovely day for a walk,” she muses.

“Aye, it is,” Robb says, though he still doesn’t look up. “We should go out later.”

Daenerys forces herself not to grimace. She gently replies: “I was hoping to walk the woods.”

Robb pauses. He stares at a spot on the page before him. For a moment, it looks like he’s lost in thought, but then he slowly shuts the paper, folds it, and puts it aside. He looks up. He meets her gaze. “The woods?” he replies.

Daenerys wonders how many times she’s begged for Robb to put his paper aside. Today was not one. But now he’s watching her, and she has to look back at him, openly, naturally, like a wife just having a conversation with her husband. _That’s all we are,_ she thinks. _Just husband and wife._ But when she blinks, she sees images across her lids; Robb, and Margaery. Jon, and her. She breathes in. She smiles: “Yes, the woods. They’re lovely in the summer.”

“You’ve been going there a lot recently,” he says.

Daenerys tries not to blink. “I have? I didn’t notice.”

“Margaery has noticed.”

“Margaery?” Daenerys says, feigning confusion. “Oh, do you mean Miss Tyrell?”

Robb blushes. He hides it behind a sip of his coffee, but Daenerys sees. It makes her both gleeful and angry at once. “You should be careful, dear, that’s all.”

“I didn’t know the woods were so dangerous.”

“Not in themselves.”

Daenerys eyes Robb with pause, but her husband makes no attempt to clarify. Her heartbeat picks up a little. She knows she should end the conversation, get up, and simply leave. _He cannot follow,_ she thinks, _not in the woods._ But instead she hears herself say: “Miss Tyrell warned me of the gamekeeper,” and Robb’s eyes narrow. She nods. She has his full attention now. “Yes, Mr Snow. She said not to trust him. I found that rather presumptuous of her.”

“I am sure she has her reasons,” Robb says airily.

“To speak ill of your brother?” Daenerys scoffs. “You used to call her a servant, Robb. Now you allow her to slander your family?”

“I will speak to her.”

Daenerys snaps: “I am speaking to _you_ now.”

Robb peers at her with surprise, and Daenerys feels her cheek redden. She has never snapped at him before. The room suddenly seems to lack air - they both pull at their collars and avert their eyes, ashamed to be stuck in a situation of open disregard for one another. The waiters at the walls don’t stir, but she sees them eyeing each other, knowingly.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys whispers with shame, “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

Robb doesn’t say anything at first. He sits and stares into his coffee. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds tired: “You know Bran is in a wheelchair.” He looks up and, as Daenerys nods, continues: “Did someone ever tell you why?”

The question catches her off guard. She blinks when she realises: “No.” She shakes her head. It never occurred to her to ask. “No, I’ve not been told.”

The look on Robb’s face darkens. He stares into his coffee again with distaste on his face. “I was just a child-” he starts, but he shakes his head and starts over: “We were all just children. Jon, Bran and I. We were playing in the woods. Silly games - chasing each other, climbing. Bran was good at climbing, mind, always reaching places no one else dared. I always told him: _don’t go too far._ It scared my mother. It scared me too.”

Daenerys thinks of the Bran she knows now; quiet, solemn. He rarely speaks. _To imagine he was once full of life._ The thought is depressing. Still she says: “Did he get hurt?”

“Aye.” Robb swirls the coffee around, but he doesn’t sip it. He looks to struggle with his words, so Daenerys gives him time. She sits, and she listens. “It was getting dark. You know what the woods are like in the pitch black - you can’t see your own feet. I kept telling Jon: _we have to go back._ But he wanted to keep playing, and so did Bran.” He puts down his mug. He breathes in deeply. He looks like he did when he returned from war: scared, and sad. He closes his hand over his mouth. He lowers it.

Then, he continues: “We had a ball. We were throwing it around. Higher, and higher into the air. I don’t remember who made the last throw, but it got stuck in the trees. The sun was setting. I said: _leave it, we’ll get it tomorrow._ But Jon insisted Bran go get it, and Bran was not one to turn down a challenge. So he climbed. Up, and up, across the thick bottom branches until they turned to wavy twigs. Up, and up.”

As Robb speaks, Daenerys sees it in her mind: Bran, small and weak, climbing with all his might, stretching his arms, reaching for the ball. She shudders. She doesn’t want to ask, but she does: “Did he fall?”

Robb swirls his coffee. “He stopped halfway. He said: _I can’t do it,_ but Jon spurred him on: _Are you not the best climber?_ So he continued. Up, and up, until-” He hammers his cup down into the saucer. The sudden noise makes Daenerys jump. “The branch snapped. He fell. The scream when he broke his legs, it just-” He shakes his head. “I still hear it in my sleep.”

Daenerys is pale. She stares at Robb, but Robb doesn’t look back at her. “You were children,” she finally croaks. “Children make mistakes.”

“Jon’s mistake nearly cost Bran’s life,” Robb says, and his voice has gained power again. He looks at her. His eyes are dark. “He is a dangerous man, dear, make no mistakes about that. If given the chance, he will do the same to you.”

“What makes you say that?” Daenerys breathes in shock.

Robb looks like he’s about to say something else, but he stops himself at the last second. He straightens up in his chair. He pushes himself free of the table. “He’s already claimed one Stark’s future,” he says with a warning glare as he swings around toward the door, “do not allow him to take another.” With that, he leaves, the servants opening and closing the door behind him, leaving Daenerys in a stunned silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll leave you on a note of suspense today! Hopefully, the sweet scene with Daenerys and Jon finally giving themselves to one another will have sweetened the deal a bit. I really enjoyed writing their scenes, it felt very intimate and raw, so I hope you enjoyed reading them!
> 
> Thank you so much for your lovely comments and feedback so far. I know I sound like a broken record, but it's true; you are what keeps DragonandDirewolf and I going, so thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings on the story and art. It does truly make a difference to us!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. To speak or be silent

In the midst of July, the dry summer heat arrives. Not even the wind can sweep the warmth off the cobblestones, and Daenerys walks the path of the woods barefooted, her pumps hanging off the tips of her fingers. She knows the way. She has walked it many times before; in the morning, when the cold dew still lingers on every blade of grass, and her visit to the woodlands is greeted by the rising sun. Sometimes in the evening, when the shades grow long and Robb retreats to his office early, leaving her to dine alone as he excuses himself with work. She has, she thinks, come to live life in the solitary hours of twilight.

Yet now it’s in the middle of the day, and Robb would anticipate her taking tea in the gardens or practising on the piano downstairs in the study. _Perhaps that is why I am here,_ Daenerys muses, _to remind him that I can defy his expectations._ Though it’s a pleasing thought, she knows it not to be true. It is not her husband’s feelings that have spurred her trip - another man beckons her heart.

Daenerys finds the clearing empty. The cottage is locked, and when she knocks, no one stirs inside. She supposes Jon is working. It is noon. The sun is dazzling bright on the clear blue sky, and pebbles of perspiration soon soak the edge of her collar. She should seek shade, but instead she hoists up her green skirt and settles on the steps, her feet defiantly pressed to the burning stone.

To wait, she thinks, is a woman’s burden. First, she waits to come of age so she can meet a man. Then she waits to be engaged so she can be his wife. Then she waits to be with child so she can become a mother. Her duty is to exist in the periphery of life - to serve in the shadow, yet never engage.

_But I tire of duty,_ Daenerys thinks, pushing back the brim of her hat so that the light washes over her face, _and I long to live._

She has dreamt about Jon - about the way he held her, the way he kissed her, the way he took her. In the night, she relives his touch by her own hand, imagining that she is not swaddled in comfort but shivering in the cold before a dying fire, kissing cheap tobacco off the lips of a man made of scars and secrets. She longs for his touch, and even Robb’s reproachful stares cannot extinguish the fire that has started burning in her body.

But the forest is always quiet, and the cottage never unlocked. _He is avoiding me,_ she presumes, but she needs to know for certain.

Daenerys hears him before she sees him; the heavy sound of boots kicking up dirt, the roughened cough, the snaps of twigs as Jon comes striding into the clearing. The gamekeeper is wet with sweat. His shirt clings onto his body beneath the open vest, and a smudge of gunpowder dirties the worn cuffs. When he spots her, he stops abruptly in his steps, making the rifle jump in the strap over his shoulder.

“Your Ladyship,” he greets. He is smoking. He looks like he wants to say something else, but when he peels the cigarette free of his lips, he manages just a cough of ashes.

Daenerys smiles and stands up. “Mr Snow,” she replies politely and shyly brushes down her skirts. “Forgive me for calling in unexpected.”

“Aye,” Jon replies gruffly, “it is unexpected.” He finishes his smoke, but instead of approaching her, he lingers at the forest edge, inspecting the broken coops stacked by the splitting maul. Still his grey eyes seek her; swiftly, cautiously, as if he cannot look directly at her.

Daenerys slips her hands to the small of her back as she watches him patiently. “I come alone,” she promises.

“I suspected your Ladyship did,” Jon replies, still hovering the wood.

“Then why do you keep your distance?”

“Your Ladyship comes alone, aye, but not unseen.”

Daenerys lets go of a baffled laugh. “Do you think I was followed?” she asks and, when Jon shakes his head, adds: “Then why?”

“Your husband expects you at home.”

“He should be glad to be rid of me for a few hours. He finds my presence tiring.”

“Perhaps,” Jon replies, ”but he still expects you.”

Daenerys has to stop herself from frowning. She felt excited when she set out for the woods, wondering how Jon would find her company. Now, she feels robbed of her joy. The sun is too sharp, and the stone too warm, and the woods too dense. She steps back into her pumps. The straps gnaw at her skin. “I’ll take my leave then,” she says. She wants her voice to be strong - it escapes her with a tempered quiver. “I sense I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

Jon’s stern expression seems to soften at her words. “Your Ladyship is always welcome.”

“My name is Daenerys,” Daenerys says and sends him a tense look, “and evidently, _Mr Snow,_ I am not.” She makes a move to leave, but before she can take a step, Jon calls out:

“I am afraid.”

Daenerys looks back at him. He stands straight and strong, the lines of his face hard, the furrow in his brows challenging. If she had only just met him, she would think him to be jesting. _But I know him more intimately than any man before,_ she thinks, peering into his eyes. They’re shaded by his cap, yet clear like silver. She thinks she can almost see herself reflected back in them; an image of longing. It leaves her speechless.

Jon swallows. When she doesn’t reply, he repeats: “I am afraid.” He sounds defiant.

“For your position?” Daenerys asks.

Jon shakes his head. “For _yours,”_ he clarifies.

“Mine!”

“Aye - I can find work. If not in the city, then on a ship. It won’t pay much, but I will eat, and that’s more than most men have. But your Ladyship-”

“Daenerys,” Daenerys pleads quietly.

“Daenerys,” Jon finally says, and she thinks her name sounds wonderful when spoken by him, “what would happen if Sir Stark were to find you with a servant?”

Memories force their way to the surface - images of brown eyes, of auburn hair; of creaking wood, of whispering lips; of Margaery, and of Robb. Daenerys tries not to grimace, but the struggle must’ve shown on her face, because Jon coughs and looks away resigned. She wants to tell him. Yet she finds her lips snapped shut. It is just like the night she visited him; she is angry, and embarrassed, and tired all at once. So she says: “I am afraid too.”

“Then you understand,” Jon starts, but she interrupts:

“But I have lived a marriage devoid of love, and now I finally know what tenderness is.” Daenerys takes in a deep breath as she looks back at Jon and shrugs: “I have nothing to lose.”

“You have everything to lose,” he protests.

“Only if you will not have me.”

Jon watches her for a moment longer, the scar on his face scrounged in thought and his expression bathed in shadows. When he draws nearer, he does so slowly, like a hunter wary of scaring off his prey. “You told me to feel,” he reminds her, “and I have felt, aye, and it has been the most frightening thing. I thought I should not seek you in case you wouldn’t come.”

“I have walked the woods every morning and evening,” Daenerys says, “and found myself alone. So you have avoided me then?”

“I have kept myself busy.”

“What is the difference?”

Jon drags off his rifle as he reaches her. He prods it against the side of the cottage, his cap carelessly flung over its barrel. His black curls hang wetly down his face. Up close, she can smell him; the sting of summer heat, the burned tobacco leaves, the dirt and grass and shrubs of the woodlands. “A busy man hasn’t got time to feel,” he replies. He doesn’t touch her, but he hovers her, his back shielding the light from the sun. “The day goes by quicker that way.”

Daenerys swallows not to make a sound. Her heartbeat is in her throat, and a prickling sensation has started to spread across her body. She leans against the door behind her not to fall. She feels light-headed. She blames it on the heat. “And the night?” she asks.

Jon smirks wryly, and at once she knows him again. When he grabs her by the chin and turns her head up, she has to stop herself from leaning in to close the gap between their lips. It is small, and heavy with his breath when he whispers: “Did your Ladyship come to talk?”

“I came to offer my company.”

“Very well,” Jon replies, “then let’s busy ourselves.” And then he kisses her. It is hard, and demanding - like a man who knows what he needs and has no hesitation to take it. His hand is at her waist, and Daenerys slips her arms around his neck, beckoning him closer as her body fills with the taste of him.

Daenerys doesn’t notice him unlocking the door. She only realises once she’s swept out of the blinding sunlight into the coolness of the cottage. The stonewalls have not heated in the shade, and the brick is damp and cold against her back. Yet she doesn’t mind; not when wrapped in the scent of Jon, the feel of his hands against the secret skin of her thighs, his lips tasting the lace of her bosom.

_I am weak to him,_ she thinks, but not unwilling. She feels like she has dived into the sea, and now floats on its surface, letting the waves carry her wherever they please. He is a force; he flings her skirts up, the soft silk folding over his hips as he pushes between her legs, taking her against the wall as if they have no time to lie down. She should feel dirty, she senses, letting the gamekeeper have his way with her in the light of day.

But she feels wanted. From the way he holds her in his arms, pressing her tight to his heaving chest, her lips clasped to his jumping Adam’s apple. From the way he claims her helpless body, reminding her of what pleasure it can give. From the way he fills her, his fingers pinching her buttocks until they ache from his touch, and she knows only release.

In the afterglow, she rests on his bed, and he stands in the doorway, watching the clearing. He has taken off his vest and shirt. Beads of sweat glow on his bare chest, the wetness settling in the crest of his scars. She reaches out as if she can touch them from afar. “No one will come,” she says.

“I know,” Jon replies, but still he watches the treeline.

Daenerys pushes herself up to sit. She has cooled, though her thighs still feel wonderfully warm. When she presses her knees together, she thinks she can feel him still, rocking deep inside of her. Her hat rests on a chair. The brim has creased from where he held her to the wall. Robb will not notice, she thinks, but she will cherish it.

“I should get back to work,” Jon says, and he grabs his dirty shirt off the floor. “Your husband must await you.”

“Let him wait a minute longer,” Daenerys says, and she holds out her hand. “Come.”

Jon pulls on his shirt and starts doing up the buttons, but still he complies; he marches over and stands before her, staring down at her with a sense of mocking to his gaze. “Your Ladyship misses me already?” he asks.

“What if I do?”

“Then I would ask you to come back. An evening, perhaps, and we could walk the woods.”

“Just walk?” Daenerys replies, and Jon laughs:

“Aye, walk, the way proper people do.” He nods toward the door, as if referring to all of the world outside his small cottage. “But you must head back before sunset. The woods can be a dangerous place after dark.”

_Dangerous,_ Daenerys muses. Though she tries to fight it, Robb’s warning surfaces in her mind: _He is a dangerous man._ The words leave her silent, and Jon continues to dress, correcting his askew collar and wiping loose locks of hair out of his face as he fits his cap. She cannot see cruelty in him - not in his face or his hands or his body, or the way he speaks, or the way he acts. When their eyes meet, she finds just honesty in his gaze.

Jon hands her the hat. She gingerly puts it on as she stands up. “Your Ladyship,” he says, holding the door, but she remains standing as she says:

“My husband spoke the other day. About Bran.” She watches him for a reaction, but finds his face emotionless. It should soothe her, she presumes, but instead she feels nervous. Her hands shiver. She holds them at her front, fingers intertwined, to calm them. “He told me about the accident.”

If she expects for Jon’s expression to change, she is mistaken. He stares back at her with the same frankness as before, awaiting her to continue. So she does:

“You were children.”

“We were.”

“I mean not to judge. I only wanted to hear your side. To ask if it was true.”

The sides of Jon’s lips pull back. Whether he smiles or grimaces, she cannot tell. When he speaks, however, his voice is unmistakably dry. “Your Ladyships knows her husband, and she knows me,” he says and straightens up, “I ask that she makes up her own mind.”

Daenerys blinks in surprise. “You will not defend yourself?”

“Defence is for the court. Is your Ladyship putting me on trial?”

“Of course not,” she says flustered. She feels silly - like a little girl who has been scolded. When Jon doesn’t say else, she bows past him out into the sun. A light breeze has started blowing. It plays with the hem of her skirt and washes the heat off her face. Still she can’t help but sense her cheeks burning with shame. As he walks her to the forest path, she peers toward him with pause. “Forgive me,” she says.

“Nothing to forgive,” he assures her.

“You must understand, I feel like a stranger in my own home. Everything is a secret. Before you arrived, I didn’t even know my husband has another brother.”

“I’m sure Sir Stark has his reasons.”

“I’m sure,” Daenerys says, but even as she speaks the words, she doesn’t believe them.

They pause at the edge of the clearing. Daenerys turns to look at Jon. “Am I still welcome?” she asks, and she feels relief flood her heart when Jon’s solemn face breaks into a wry smirk.

“Of course,” he replies, “for walks and other pleasures.” She makes a move to leave, but he adds: “Your Ladyship?”

“Mr Snow?” Daenerys stops on the path and patiently watches him.

“Don’t judge Sir Stark too harshly,” Jon asks, “your husband is a good man.” Then, he tugs at the brim of his cap, making the shadow fall over his eyes. “Good day,” he bids her before stalking back toward the cottage.

Daenerys stands in shock and sees him go, her stomach churning. _A good man!_ she thinks. She can barely believe they speak of the same person. Once she would’ve referred to Robb in terms of endearment only. Later, with the kind of dull detachment that begs no harm. Yet now, when she lingers on his name, she can only think of infidelity. _A good man,_ she muses again as she takes off down the path, perplexity filling her head. _Has he fooled his brother as much as he has fooled me?_

She finds Robb waiting for her in the rose gardens. He wears a grey flannel suit and a skimmer hat. When she bends down to kiss his cheek, she can smell whisky on his breath. The glass in his hands is empty. “It’s a lovely day,” she says.

“It is,” he agrees, “which is why I thought I’d find you here.”

“I went to the woods. The shade is cooler.”

“How is the company?”

Daenerys tries not to blush as she tersely replies: “I walked alone.” She kneels next to his chair and rests her hands on the armrest. “I thought we could have lunch together.”

“I already ate,” Robb says dismissively.

“With Miss Tyrell?”

Her husband doesn’t look at her. He turns the glass in his hands. He appears lost in thought.

For a moment, she merely watches him; the way his auburn hair falls around his nape, and his nose wrinkles when he breathes, and his upper-lip curl when he gnaws his teeth. When they first met, she could stare at him for hours as he worked, find a place in her heart for every imperfection of his. _But,_ it occurs to her, _he never found a place in his for mine._

“I fear I have neglected you, dear,” Robb suddenly says.

“Do not blame yourself. You have many matters to attend.”

“Aye, yet when you asked for visitors, I denied you even that.”

“Oh, do not fret,” Daenerys begs. There is a peculiar rigidness to his words - they don’t come easy, she can tell. He speaks like a man forced to talk. “We have each other, do we not?”

“That’s what I used to think.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asks. Robb finally looks at her. His gaze is piercing, and Daenerys finds she has to force herself to peer back at him. She wants to recoil. She feels ashamed. _I have done nothing to him that he hasn’t already done to me,_ she reminds herself. Still the guilt gnaws at her heart.

“I believe some female company would do you well.”

Daenerys could laugh. _A friend!_ she thinks. Once she would’ve relished in the thought, but now it sounds like a chore. “We have few acquaintances nearby,” she protests.

“Which is why I’ve arranged for my sister to stay. Arya will be travelling up from London next week.”

Daenerys blinks in surprise. “To stay? For how long?”

“A month, perhaps more.”

“I thought you preferred to work in the quiet.”

“I do,” Robb agrees, “but it would be pleasant for you to have company on your many walks.”

_He knows,_ Daenerys supposes as she stares into Robb’s gloomy eyes. Surely not the truth, though he may suspect it. _But he knows enough to wish to control me._ She suddenly feels faint - as if those few words have stolen all the air out of her lungs. She gets up at once. “Forgive me,” she says, “I think I need to lie down.”

“Should I get the nurse?” Robb asks.

Daenerys suppresses a grimace. “I will get Miss Poole to assist me,” she assures him before heading inside. But she doesn’t call on the servant. She scurries straight up the stairs, her skirts hoisted high to allow her to hurry, and into the bedroom. Her breath is stuck in her throat. Despite the heat, goosebumps are prickling down her arms.

_He wants to reign in my heart,_ she thinks. She takes off her hat. Her fingers caress the crease. She presses the fabric to her nose, and at once she’s back; to the gunpowder on his shirt and the warmth of his mouth and the hardness of his body and the dampness of the cottage, and the sun, and the earth, and the breeze. She smiles. She can breathe once more. _But my heart is already lost._

* * *

It is a rainy afternoon when Arya arrives. The car has scarcely stopped outside the mansion before she jumps from her seat to greet Daenerys on the porch. She’s dressed in blue, her skirt hemmed for walking and the straw boater askew her messy braids. “Where is my brother?” she asks as she pecks her cold cheek. “I long to see him!”

“He’s tending to business in his office,” Daenerys replies, “but I’m sure he can spare a moment.”

“Ah, do not bother Robb, he will see me for dinner. No, where is Jon?”

“Mr Snow?” Daenerys says surprised. “Why, he’s in the woods.

“Then we must go,” Arya decides and she peers toward the woodlands.

For a moment, Daenerys watches her bemused. Ever since Jon arrived, she has only ever seen people react to him in terms of indifference - a remnant from the past to speculate upon, but never to be engaged with for any other purpose than servitude. Yet Arya is flushed with excitement and cranes her neck as if she can catch a glimpse of the gamekeeper if only she stands an inch taller.

The clouds hang low over the land, shrouding the hills in a wet veil and trapping in the heat. Daenerys thinks it looks like thunder will break out any minute. She eyes the sky as she asks: “You don’t mind the rain?”

“No more than it minds me. Oh, but you’re not dressed for nature.” Arya sheepishly turns her gaze on Daenerys’ white gown. With its lace and buttons, the tea dress is scarcely suitable for more than an outing in the garden.

Still Daenerys just smiles: “Let’s not keep your brother waiting,” and she pulls on a shawl before leading the way downhill.

Out in the open, the persistent drizzle is heavy, and the flowers in Daenerys’ picture hat soon collapse against the brim. But beneath the green tree crowns, there is shelter, and the two women laugh as they escape the cold downpour.

“What a welcome,” Arya says and she pauses to look back at the mansion. In the grey curtain of rain, it is barely visible atop the hill. “One could almost miss Paris.”

“You’ve been travelling?” Daenerys asks. She starts leading the way between the trees, down the path that she now knows by heart. At her side, Arya walks with her brother’s eager pace; she constantly makes headway only to stop seconds later to let her catch up.

“Paris, Berlin, Florence, Rome - wherever they would have me. A proper education, Father would’ve called it, but I care more about the people I meet.”

“What were they like?”

“People are the same everywhere,” Arya replies with a wry smile, “all just looking for their place in the world.”

_She even speaks like Jon,_ Daenerys muses. Before, she had no one to compare Robb’s sister to. She always seemed misplaced - kind, but careless about the expectations placed upon her. Now, the gamekeeper’s brusqueness reflects in her eyes. _He’s part of a family after all,_ she thinks. Despite the wet breeze brushing through the trees, the thought makes her feel warm. “Are you happy to be back?”

“They say there is no place like home, but in truth I come at Robb’s request. Gendry has asked for my hand.”

“Mr Waters?”

“If you prefer. Mr Snow, Mr Waters - you’re too polite,” Arya laughs. “Say, do you call my brother _Sir.”_

“Only if he annoys me.”

“You shouldn’t fret - we’re all family,” Arya reminds her.

To Daenerys, the words sound strange. Robb has often spoken them when referring to Jon, but it always seemed hollow. When Arya says it, however, it’s with such ease that it can only be so. She means it, she realises. It is not an empty gesture - it is a truth. “Do you wish to marry?” she asks.

“He is _nouveau riche,”_ Arya says. _“New money._ Robb doesn’t approve.”

“What does wealth have to do with love?” Daenerys asks. “I can’t imagine he would care.”

“But he did in his own marriage, did he not?” Arya says.

“What do you mean?” Daenerys asks before even realising the question. By then, Arya is already sighing:

“Oh, you know how he was fond of Margaery. The two of them were never apart. Of course, the Tyrells owned no land then, Mother would’ve never approved.” She shakes her head before sending Daenerys a small smile. “But he grew to love you, and you him. He wants the same for me.”

Daenerys has to force herself to keep walking, but her knees feel weak, and her breath quivers in her chest. _They were in love,_ she thinks. She always knew Robb had a past before her, but she never imagined him to have been keen on another woman. Somehow, it makes everything feel worse; the deceit, the lies, the nights spent in his office. It is not just her body that he has betrayed - it is her very heart.

Arya has made headway once more. This time, she stops and turns to peer at Daenerys, her grey eyes dark with concern. “Is something the matter?” she asks.

Daenerys tries to speak, but no words come out. The enclosed woods suddenly appear suffocating. She drags off her shawl and pats her cheeks dry in the fabric. Only when Arya places her hand on hers does she manage to reply: “I’m fine.”

“Did we walk too quickly? I can slow down.”

“All this talk of marriage,” Daenerys says, “it’s unfair, is it not?”

“What do you mean?”

“It has become such an arrangement. Without love, it is just an appointment, no different than going to the dentist.”

“Do you worry for me? I can hold my own.”

“I worry for all women, because we have become transactions in a business.”

“You say that, yet your eyes tell a different story,” Arya argues as she takes Daenerys’ hands in her own.

Daenerys blinks at her. “What do you mean?” she asks, and Arya’s smile deepens.

“You’re in love,” she says simply.

“In love!”

“I can tell - you’ve always held back, but now you carry yourself differently. It gives me hope,” she admits. “Perhaps I too could grow fond of someone chosen for me.”

Daenerys has no time to argue - just moments later, there’s a snap of twigs, and Jon appears on the path ahead. She spots him over Arya’s boater; a dark frame lit up by the faint sunlight falling in from the clearing behind. Moments later, Arya has turned and seen him too, and she cries:

“Jon!” before taking off toward him. Her skirts dance around her legs, and when she swings her arms around him, she reminds Daenerys of a child so full of joy that it cannot be contained. She approaches slowly, as not to ruin the tender moment between them. Even in the shadows, she thinks she sees Jon’s hard face soften into a sob as he presses his nose to his sister’s hair.

“When did you arrive?” he asks as the hug breaks.

“Just now - I asked Daenerys to take me.”

“Your Ladyship.” Jon nods and pulls off his cap as she stops before him. He wipes it over his face, whether to rid himself of rain or tears Daenerys does not know. She averts her eyes as she greets him:

“Mr Snow.” Arya’s words ring in her ears: _in love._ She fears they’ll fester if she looks too much at him.

“You’re all too polite,” Arya chastises them, her hands still wrapped in Jon’s sleeve. She looks up at him. “We have so much to talk about. Is there somewhere we can go?”

“Aye, my cottage’s back there,” Jon says, nodding toward the clearing. His gaze flickers between his sister and Daenerys. “Would your Ladyship join us for tea?”

“I should head back,” she declines politely.

“It’s no bother,” Jon assures her, but for once she knows his offer to be of courtesy only.

_He left home when he was eleven,_ she reminds herself, watching Arya take in her brother’s aged features with kind eyes, _they have many years to catch up on._ “I’m expecting company,” Daenerys lies, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her frame. “Another time.”

She leaves them to the woods, striding back down the path the same way she came. Yet she can’t stop herself from peering over her shoulder; at a bend, she pauses for a moment, watching as Jon and Arya embrace once more. Somehow, she thinks she won’t mind being accompanied on her walks after all.

* * *

Summer passes at pace; in the mornings, Daenerys and Arya go horse riding, followed by lazy afternoons in the gardens. In the evenings, when the sun has left them quite parched, they seek respite in the cool woodlands. They forage for blackberries and crab apples, elderberries and hazelnuts. They talk about travelling and the weather. And they visit Jon’s cottage.

Sometimes, Daenerys leaves Arya by the door, returning to the mansion to dine alone. Other times, she stays and sits in the growing shadows of the trees, and she listens to Jon teaching his sister about fishing and hunting. They don’t talk about the past, but it lingers all the same, making itself known in the words unspoken. Like when Arya asks:

“Where did you learn to set snares?” and he replies:

“I forget, it’s all behind me now.”

His face, Daenerys thinks, always grows weary when he’s forced to remember. _Perhaps there’s happiness in the quiet,_ she supposes, _and too much talk dulls the heart._ Yet, when she goes to bed at night, her chest seems to ache with questions, and the silence of the mansion does little to satisfy her need to know.

_Did my husband always love another?_ she wonders, listening to the servants pacing the house, their steps echoing through the empty halls. She always imagines it is Margaery heading downstairs to Robb’s office. Her thoughts leave her restless. _Were I ever a wife to him,_ _or just the ghost of the woman he lost?_

On rainy days, when she’s forced to remain inside, Daenerys finds it harder to escape the troubling worries of marriage. Whilst there was first only politeness between Robb and his sister, tension now fills their every conversation. As the rain bashes to the windows, the mansion comes alive with arguments. Sitting in the study, Daenerys hears them through the open door to his office.

“A marriage is not about wealth,” Arya says, her voice loud and stubborn. “It’s about companionship.”

“Aye, but a poor man makes poor acquaintances.”

“You confuse money and morals.”

“What will he offer you that a man of better standing can’t?”

“I suppose love.”

“Emotions fade. Do you think a year from now, you’ll remember this conversation? Anger, adoration, sadness - it all evaporates like snow. Here now, gone the next moment.”

Daenerys peers out of the window. The clouds hang so low that she can scarcely see the other side of the hedge bordering the gardens. But if she could see through the mist, she knows she would find the woods, and the muddy path, and the small cottage with the warm fire burning inside. She would find Jon on his bed, wet and smoking. His hands would welcome her home, and in them she would find emotions. In every line of his hands, and every wrinkle upon his forehead, and even in the small grey hairs by his nape. She would find anger, adoration, sadness.

_Emotions may be brief,_ she agrees, _yet they mark someone for life._

“Then why bother?” Arya asks. “I might as well die alone. Here now, gone the next!”

“Don’t speak with such cruelty.”

“You are lucky, brother. You have loved twice, but perhaps I can only love once.”

“Love who you must,” Robb says, his voice tired, “but marry with your mind.”

Moments later, Arya enters the study. Daenerys pretends to be surprised to see her, but nothing about the frazzled look on her face comes as a shock to her. She has sat through too many conversations between Robb and his acquaintances to know what he feels on the matter of relationships. Still it softens her heart when Arya drops down on the sofa and places her head in her lap.

“He has not changed,” she concludes. “I either marry someone I love, or someone to love.”

“What will you do?” Daenerys asks, brushing her brown hair out of her face.

Arya peers toward the window. The rain is still rushing down the glass. “I don’t know,” she admits. “When I arrived, my heart was light. Now I barely care to have it.”

“To feel is a wonderful thing. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

“I suppose,” Arya replies, but even she doesn’t seem to believe it.

* * *

As August draws to an end, Arya voices her wish to go hunting. “Jon has shown me much,” she says, “I would like to shoot a deer myself.”

“Let’s start with a pigeon,” Robb suggests, but he obliges; one morning, as the air is still dense with the cold from nightfall, they all set out toward the woodlands. Robb and Jon lead the way, both dressed in brown and carrying rifles. At the back, Arya and Daenerys walk, huddled close for warmth as the sun is still breaking through the clouds.

It’s a fresh day, filled with the scents of summer and autumn at once. After weeks of rainfall, Daenerys is excited to be outside, and she can’t help a spring to her step as she gazes across the bustling tree crowns. She is swept in maroon silks, but a black fur coat keeps the chilly breeze at bay, and the feathers bobbing in her hat make her feel at one with nature.

But her joy is short lived. There, at the forest edge, Margaery awaits them. For once, she is not dressed in grey, instead looking smart in midnight blue. As they approach, Daenerys can tell that the gown is new and recently fitted.

“Good morning, Sir Stark,” Margaery greets with a curtsy before turning to Daenerys with a smile. “Lady Stark.”

“Miss Tyrell,” Daenerys replies. She tries to contain the shock to her voice, but she is certain that her face must be betraying her. Out of the corners of her eyes, she can sense Arya watching her, her grey eyes piercing. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I invited her,” Robb says, “did I not say?”

Daenerys bites back a grimace. “No, dear, you did not.”

“Well, it is all the same. Miss Tyrell has never seen a hunt.”

“Neither has Miss Poole. If we are asking the servants to come along, I would’ve liked to extend the invitation.”

Robb scoffs: “You know it is not the same thing.”

“Is it not?” Daenerys asks, feigning ignorance as she turns to her husband. “How so?”

Robb’s face scrounges up. She can tell he’s holding back anger. She waits for him to let it out. In a way, she thinks she wants him to - if he shouts, it’s an admittance of guilt for all to see. It’s proof to the world that she is not a fool, that the image she saw in the night is not made up by her mind. Yet, as always, her husband maintains his composure. “Let’s carry on,” he says to Jon, “you have set up bait, I presume?”

“Aye,” Jon says, taking the lead. Still his eyes seek Daenerys’, and she holds his gaze for as long as she can as Margaery joins Arya’s side.

“What a beautiful dress,” Daenerys says without looking directly at Margaery. “Is it new?”

“Thank you, my Lady, it is.”

“It feels expensive,” Arya says, touching the fabric of her skirt as they walk. “I saw silk like this in Venice.”

“I wouldn’t know - it was a gift.”

“Of courtship?” Daenerys asks innocently, making Margaery blush. She is not sure whether her discomfort pleases her or annoys her, but as the nurse doesn’t reply, she waves her hand dismissively. “Just remain wary, Miss Tyrell. As my husband would say; a man feels one moment, but forgets the next.”

“I thought you said that feeling is a wonderful thing?” Arya reminds her, confused.

Daenerys’ cheeks glow warm. Before she can think of anything to say, Margaery jumps in: “You’re to be engaged?” She looks at Arya with a smile.

“You have heard? I am not certain.”

“You question his intentions?”

“Mr Waters is a fine man,” Daenerys assures her sharply.

“Oh, I am aware, my Lady,” Margaery says, the smile never leaving her lips, “I only meant to say that all men are alike. They’re akin babies - praise them, and let them think they have their own way. It’ll bring peace to the house.”

“Really?” Arya asks. Daenerys half expected her to correct the nurse, but she seems keen on this new information. Before she knows of it, their arms are intertwined, and she watches stunned as Margaery and Arya walk off together, veering to the side of the road as if seeking privacy.

_They look like old friends,_ she thinks. She realises that they are; long before she arrived at the estate, Margaery had already been around, caring for Bran and making herself familiar with the Starks. _I am a stranger in my own home,_ she reminds herself sadly as she follows the group on her own.

For a while, they walk along the edge of the forest, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, listening to the sounds of the woods. The cool of the morning soon makes way for the damp heat. It simmers on the stone and reminds Daenerys of the afternoon she walked to the cottage; how the path burned her feet, how Jon’s hands held her tight. How his lips tasted her parched breath. How her body welcomed his deep thrusts.

Daenerys is so caught up in the memory that she scarcely notices that the men have stopped ahead. Once she catches up, she finds Robb struggling to rid himself of his coat.

“There is no shade out here,” he says to Jon whilst tugging at the sleeves. The buttons have stuck themselves on the back of the wheelchair, the thread wrapped into a snag in the wood. “I should be glad to rid myself of this.”

“You’ll tear the fabric,” Daenerys says, “let me.” But as she reaches for him, he waves her away.

“Miss Tyrell will assist,” he demands.

“Surely that’s a wife’s job.”

“You said it yourself, dear, it’s a job - a servant would be more suited.”

“But Miss Tyrell is here as a guest,” Daenerys reminds him. She’s not sure why she bothers to argue - out of the corners of her eyes, she can see Margaery approach, her hands already reaching for Robb. _Let her have him,_ she thinks. _If I were never to touch him again, I should be just as happy._ But pride hammers in her chest. “Please, let me help.”

“I don’t mind,” Margaery assures her. She stops on Robb’s other side, her fingertips brushing to the armrest.

“I can tend to my husband just fine,” Daenerys replies.

“What a thing to bicker about,” Robb says. He has started to sweat, droplets trickling down his forehead as the fabric wraps warmly around his shoulders. “I only want out of this.”

“Very well,” Daenerys says, grabbing at his sleeve. But her hands have barely touched the fabric before Robb pulls away and shouts:

“I asked for Miss Tyrell!”

A few pigeons escape through the woods. The sound of their wings flapping seem loud in the silence that settles over the group. Robb is glowing red, though whether from anger or heat Daenerys does not know. Her hands are at her chest, her heart hammering below the palms, and all she can do is stare into his bright, furious eyes as she looks for something to say. She can see the outline of Arya and Jon, lingering in the periphery - she, white with shock and he, bitterly quiet.

Robb twists his lips. He looks away. “Forgive me,” he says, but he’s not aiming it at anyone in particular. For a second, no one moves. Then, Margaery reaches over and frees the button from its trap, and she helps him out of his coat.

“There you go, Sir,” she says, brushing a lock of auburn hair out of his face as she smiles: “Perfect for a day out.” She looks at Daenerys, and Daenerys peers back into her brown eyes and knows:

_Like a baby._ She tends to him, and she flatters him, and she lets him have his way, and now Robb looks up at his nurse with a kindness never offered herself. _Let her have him,_ she thinks again as her hands tighten into fists at her side, her skirts held tightly in her palms, _I do not wish to mother a man._

One moment, Daenerys is on the path, the sun warm on her cheek. The next, she is walking through the woods. Behind her, she can hear Arya call for her, but it only makes her pick up her pace. There is no path here, and no cobble stones. Robb will not be able to follow. She finds that spurs her to push on; in between the trees, over the low-growing shrubs, through patches of darkness and wet ground and dry grassy hills. She doesn’t know this part of the woods. She doesn’t care - anywhere is better than home.

_Home,_ she wonders. She thinks of what Jon said when they first met: _perhaps being born somewhere does not make a home._ She now believes the same can be said for living. She walks the halls of Winterfell, but she does not truly reside there. She is an idea, a thought; an image of a wife, yet no one knows the woman behind her title. She was used to that. In fact, she had almost become content with keeping up the charade - until Robb no longer wished to play his part.

_So now I’m lost,_ Daenerys thinks. Tears are rushing down her cheeks. She wipes them away, but they come back, burning her cheeks red and leaving her mouth tired from sobbing. _I am lost, and perhaps this time no one will find me again._ Yet Jon does.

He comes marching from around a grand oak tree. She has paused for breath, but when she spots him she carries on, stumbling her way ahead. “Your Ladyship,” he calls, yet she continues, though he is quicker, and he is stronger. “Your Ladyship.” His hands reach for her. His arms wrap around her. She tries to fight him, but she can’t. _“Daenerys,”_ he speaks, and when she looks into his face, worn with worry and eyes dark with confusion, she finally lets herself be held.

Daenerys presses her face to his neck as she sobs: “He loves her!” His hands brush her hair and her back, and she leans into his touch as she repeats: “He loves her. My husband loves his nurse, and he always has.”

“I know,” Jon speaks, and Daenerys laughs bitterly through her tears.

“Of course! Everyone knows everything, only I’m kept in the dark.” She pushes herself free of his hold, but she doesn’t run. She just turns her back on him as she stares into the woods. They are quiet. There is no one else coming. “He never wanted me. He married me out of duty, but at least he had the dignity to pretend.” She wipes her eyes off in her sleeve as she smiles sadly: “Now, he doesn’t even give me that.”

“Do you love him?”

“How could I?” Daenerys looks back at Jon. He stands in the shadows of the trees, his black curls falling down his eyes, his lips pulled back into a frown of concern. “They warn me of you, and you do not even defend yourself,” she says, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she turns to face him. “You call him _a good man.”_

“Aye, that I do,” Jon nods.

“How can you?” she asks. She wishes to talk, but her voice comes out tempered. She feels it within herself - the burning fire of anger. It is as if her body is aflame with it. “How can you know the way he treats me and call him _good!”_

“Because he saved my life.”

Daenerys’ lips snap shut. She stares at Jon, eyeing his face for any sign of jest. But there is none. He looks grave, and tired. As she doesn’t speak, he pulls off his cap and sighs, running his hand through his messy locks.

“You asked about my scars,” he says, “and I told you - I got them at war. But they would cut much deeper if it wasn’t for your husband.”

“He saved you?”

Jon turns the cap between his hands, thoughtfully, as if inspecting it. Then, he asks: “Do you know why your husband is in a wheelchair?”

Daenerys blinks in surprise. “He fought in the war,” she replies.

“What else?”

“What else?” Daenerys repeats. For a second, she thinks she is going to reply. But then it dawns on her: _I do not know._ Since coming home, Robb never told her, and she never thought to ask. The war was a subject which could be discussed in theory, but never from personal experience. _All these years,_ she thinks, swallowing a sense of guilt, _and I never even wondered what happened._

“Shrapnel,” Jon says, slowly approaching Daenerys. “It would’ve taken my heart, but it took his legs instead. How do you repay someone who saves your life?” He stops before her. He looks down at her. In his eyes, she sees all of him; his raw sadness, his stubborn pride, his soft emotions.

“Without him, you wouldn’t be here,” Daenerys realises.

“Worse,” Jon says, cupping her chin, turning her face upwards as he smiles down at her. “Without him, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Daenerys’ heart trembles, but she can’t let herself go just yet. Her hand closes at Jon’s wrist. “No more secrets,” she begs. “I can’t go on if I don’t know it all. You must promise me, Jon - you will tell me all.”

“Aye, then no more secrets,” Jon agrees, “and you will have me?”

“All of you,” Daenerys promises.

Jon sweeps her into his arms, and his lips press to hers, so hard and so needy that she could mistake it for lust. But it is passion, she knows. Fierce, and unforgiving, and all-consuming.

_And I want to be consumed,_ she thinks as she gives in to his touch, _and never again know myself without him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, I never expected it to take 4 months to get another chapter out, yet here we are! Inktober drained me, and I needed a good long break. Hopefully, I'll be able to ease into writing again, though I'm planning on taking things at a slow pace. I won't be able to say when the next chapter will be out, only that it's a priority of mine to finish this story.
> 
> Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well as learning a bit more about Jon and Robb, and about how their pasts intertwine. I've been excited to share this, so it feels good to finally put down in writing. A massive thank you to DragonandDirewolf for the wonderful art that captures my favourite scene in this chapter - Daenerys and Jon just being themselves together. Ah, I'm soft for them!
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading, and for the lovely comments on the last chapter. I've treasured every piece of feedback and it motivated me to continue, so for that I'm grateful!


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